Son Of a Wanted Man (1984) Page 13

  He’s tryin to flag us down.” Bata slung on his gunbelt and picked up his rifle. “One man? Are you sure?” “Mister, you couldn’t hide a sick goat out yonder. It’s all wideopen country. This gent looks like he wants a train. There’s a dirt ramp there, for loadin’ stock, an’ he’s atop it.” “All right, slowdown.” His At the brakeman’s signal the locomotive slowed down still more. Bata rested his Winchester on the windowsill and waited. He could see the man plainly now, but not his face. But that horse-to Slowly the train braked to a stop.

  “All right, out there! You’re covered by a .44 Winchester. So speak your piece!” “I need a ride for my horse and myself, I am-was The voice broke off. “Bata? Is that you?

  Sackett, here. There’s going to be a holdup.” “That’s why I’m headed home. Load up and let’s get on with it.” “I was headed your way when I stopped off at the Wiggins place for supper.

  They’ve got a telegraph operator at the station there where they load stock. I didn’t know of any train, so when the message came through I headed off to join Chantry.” He went to the stove for coffee, hotter and blacker now. Baca filled a cup also and laid out his plan. “I think Bord will have it set up just that way.” “Monson an” Clatt? Tough boys,” Sackett said. Baca sipped his coffee. “With this here telegraph an’ the trains it’s gettin’ so a poor robber doesn’t have much chance.” “It’s changing things,” Sackett agreed.

  “Look at us. A couple of years back we wouldn’t have a chance of gettin’ there in time.” “And we may not now.” The train rumbled along, and the two men alternately slept, drank coffee, and talked, watched the wild countryside slip past them.

  Wagon trains had crossed this country, and cattle drives. Before that there were Indians, various branches of the Plains Apache, most of them wiped out by the Comanches.

  Baca spoke of it, and Sackett nodded. “More Indians were killed by other Indians than by white men,” he said. “I’ve talked to a few who were the last of their kind. his He peered from the window of the caboose.

  Antelope went skipping away over the plain, then paused to look back and ran on again. A half dozen buffalo lay on a low hill, watching the train.

  “We’ve got to hope he got that telegram you sent,” Tyrel said. “But even so he’s a careful man. Nobody’s goin’ to catch him off guard.” “He knows they’ve set this place up,” Baca agreed. The brakeman came back over the cars and dropped into the caboose. “Goin’ to have to stop for water,” he said. “You boys better stand by.

  Somebody might be wishful of takin’ a ride.” The long plains twilight faded as they waited alongside the water tank. The plains stretched out for miles with here and there a gully, and far off alight from a distant window. Somebody else was in the world, anyway.

  The brakeman released the water pipe and swung it back into place, tying the rope. Baca and Sackett swung aboard.

  “When I first came west,” Tyrel Sackett said, “I tied up with a cattle drive, Orrin an’ me. Went through to Abilene with it. Then we came on into this country right south of here, rounded up wild cattle, and sold “em. his “You were in that land-grant fight, weren’t you”…”* “Uh-huh. Orrin an” me were. Orrin was sheriff there for a while, too. Then he studied more law and went into politics.” “Best get some sleep. Be daylight before we know it. was “The shack said, I mean the brakeman, that we’d get to town just after daylight.” “Ben Curry always timed his robberies about openin’ time at the bank,” Baca said. “Fewer folks on the street, and in the bank they’re gettin’ money out for the day’s business.” They dozed, slept, and awakened with gray light in the distance. Tyrel Sackett checked his guns.

  Baca walked to the window of the caboose and peered out. For a moment he just looked, and then he said, “Sackett?” Tyrel turned, struck by an odd sound in his voice. “What is it?” “Look!” Tyrel bent to look out.

  They were there, three abreast, the others strung out behind. Baca counted aloud. was … seven, eight … nine. Nine of them. I hope Chantry has some help.” Nine men riding to a town where Borden Chantry *As described in The Daybreakers by Louis L’Amour.

  waited. “Well,” Sackett said quietly, “one thing we know. was “What’s that?” “We’re gettin’ there on time.” Borden Chantry finished his coffee and stood up, reaching for his hat. “I’d best get over to the office.” He turned and looked at his wife. “You goin’ to be around, Bess?” His eyes met hers. She was as lovely as ever, and never a day passed that he did not thank the good Lord for letting him find her before he made a fool of himself with somebody else.

  “Where would I go?” “Oh, I thought maybe over to Mary’s or something.” “I’ll be here. She adjusted his coat collar.

  “Be careful, Borden. You never walk out of that door but that I worry. was “I’ll be all right.” A train whistled, and he turned sharply.

  “That’s funny! We don’t have any train cumin” in this morning.” He glanced out, and he could see it coming, just a locomotive, a stockcar, and a caboose. Now what the hell?

  He stepped outside and looked toward the station.

  The station agent had stepped out on the platform and was shading his eyes along the track. Borden Chantry slipped the thong from the hammer of his gun. He glanced toward the street, but the cafe cut off his view of most of it.

  Two men were standing in front of the other cafe, which was across the street, facing toward his house and the railroad. Mary Ann’s house was behind it, some distance back, but nobody was stirring there, although a thin trail of smoke rose from the chimney.

  The small train was pulling in alongside the unloading ramp, and two men swung down from the caboose before the train was fully stopped. They ran up the ramp and began opening the stockcar door. One of them was Kim Baca, and the other?

  Tyrel Sackett!

  Chantry stepped back into the house and took his Winchester from the rack. Bess stared at him, her face gone white.

  “Borden? What is it?” “Trouble,” he said, “Kim’s back and Sackett with him. They’re in a hurry.” He checked the rifle, jacked a cartridge into the chamber, and said, “If they stop here, I’m at the office.” “Shouldn’t you wait for them?” “If there’s trouble I’d better alert the town.

  I think it is coming, and fast, or they wouldn’t be in such a hurry. his He stepped down off the porch and strode quickly toward the opening between the cafe building and the post office. As he stepped up on the boardwalk he saw Prissy sweeping the walk in front of the post office. “Priss,” he said quickly, “get off the street. I think we have trouble coming.” “Borden Chantry, if you think I am afraid-I” “Priss, there’s goin’ to be some shootin’. I think we’ve got a robbery coming. You get off the street, or if you want to help, run up the street and tell George an’ Hyatt. his “Not me, marshal! I’ve my own rifle to get.

  You tell them I” Somebody tugged at his sleeve and Chantry turned. It was Billy McCoy, a friend of Tom’s. “Can I? Let me!” “All right. Run up the street and tell them all to stand by. I think there’s going to be an attempted holdup.” He turned and spoke loudly. “Everybody) Off the street!” Big Injun, his jailer and occasional deputy, had come to the jail door, a shotgun in his hands.

  “Stand by,” Borden said.

  He was going to look the fool if nothing happened.

  After all, Sackett and Baca might be just hurrying for breakfast. But why the special train?

  He glanced along the street. Three saddle horses standing in front of the cafe, one down the street in front of the Mexican cafe. A buckboard at the grocery store. No time to move it now, so the horses would just have to take their chances.

  Kim Baca walked out on the street, hesitated, and then came over. “They’re comin’, Bord. We passed “em just outside of town.

  There’s nine of them, led by Monson an” Clatt.” “How far?” “How far away? They should be ridin’ into town any minute unless our train scared “em, but I doubt it.” Two miles out of town
Monson drew up to let the others gather around him. “You boys know the drill. Clatt, me, an” Porky will ride up the street to the bank. Klondike, you come in from behind the Corral Saloon and hold our horses. The rest of you boys cover the street. was “What if there’s trouble?” “You got a gun. The old man ain’t in charge now,” Monson said. “Me an’ Clatt are.

  We’ll show this bunch what we’re made of.” “All right,” Clatt said impatiently.

  “Let’s go!” Klondike hesitated.

  “Monny, what about that train? I didn’t like the looks of it.” “Forget it! just shiftin’ a stockcar in to pick up some cattle. Let’s go!” Borden Chantry was in his office door with the jail behind him. Big Injun was at the window.

  Hyatt Johnson, up at the bank, had been a major in the Confederate cavalry, and George Blazer at the express office had been a sharpshooter with Sherman and was a veteran of a number of Indian battles. He glanced down the street.

  Here they were, three men riding abreast, coming right up the street. A trail of dust where one man had cut over behind the saloon.

  “Big Injun?” He spoke over his shoulder.

  “There’s one cumin’ up behind the Corral. You take him.” Borden Chantry stepped out of the door and went to the edge of the boardwalk.

  Down the street Tyrel Sackett, his badge in plain sight, stepped out from the shadow of the McCoy house as the last two riders rode into town. The others were a good fifty yards ahead of them and intent on the street and the town.

  “Boys? I’m Tyrel Sackett, and I’d like to talk to you. Get down off those horses and come over here. And boys? Keep your hands in sight.” Tyrel Sackett? The Mora gunfighter?

  Denny Dinsmore felt himself go a little sick in the stomach. What the hell was this? Sackett here?

  He hesitated. Sweat broke out on his brow.

  Clyde Bussy was beside him, and Clyde was a good, tough boy, but—“What “What is this?” he protested. Sackett’s tone was sharp. “Get off those horses and get over here. Novel” “You want us to drop our gunbelts?” Denny asked.

  Sackett seemed to smile, but it was not a smile Denny liked. Why did he ever want to be an outlaw, anyway?

  “Oh, not Keep your guns on! I’d never like it said that I shot an unarmed marl” Clyde wasn’t offering any argument. Slowly and carefully, the two men dismounted.

  When the three advance riders drew almost abreast of Chantry, he lifted his left hand. “Just a minute, boys! I’m Borden Chantry, the sheriff. I’d like a word with you.” Something clicked in Monson’s brain.

  Chantry? It was his place where the horses were. What had happened? An old man named Riggin was supposed to be marshal here.

  Monson laughed. “Sorry, mister sheriff, we ain’t got time to talk. Supposin’ you just shuck them guns an’ walk ahead of us. Walk slow, up to the bank. That all right with you?” Monson turned in his saddle. “Anybody shows along the street, shoot “em!” Monson was cocky, and he was sure of himself. No hick-town sheriff He never saw the draw. Borden Chantry had stood there, big, formidable, his gun in his holster. Monson went for his gun but as Chantry drew he stepped to the left, and Monson shifted his gun to cover him, firing as he did so, and he shot his horse, the bullet grazing the black’s neck.

  The horse plunged and Monson was already falling.

  There was a burst of gunfire all along the street, the stab of flame from pistols, plunging, rearing horses, the smell of gunsmoke. Riding from behind the Corral Saloon to become the horse holder while the robbery took place, Klondike heard the shots, saw Monson down, his horse racing away up the street. Somebody was shooting from the bank, and he saw a man kneeling in front of the express office with a Big Fifty Sharps. This was no place for a man who wanted to spend his old age sitting in the sun. Klondike wheeled his horse and headed for the shelter of a barn, from which point he hoped to make the wideopen country beyond. Klondike had never heard of Big Injun, a big, slow moving, quiet man who rarely smiled. He did not know that the year Klondike was born Big Injun had taken his ninth scalp. All Klondike knew was that things had exploded all around him and he wanted to get away from there, and fast. He turned his horse to go and the horse made at least two jumps in the right direction. Big Injun, kneeling in the doorway, fired his Sharps, and the bullet, because of the movements of the horse, was a little low. It grazed the cantle of Klondike’s saddle and, badly deformed, careened upward. The jagged metal took off the back of Klondike’s skull. What remained of Klondike stayed in the saddle for a quarter of a mile before it fell, toppling into the dust. The horse ran off a little way and, missing its rider, stopped, trotted off a few steps, and waited. Klondike lay where he had fallen. Klondike, a tough man, was tough no longer. He stared up at the sky. “I wish … I just wish …” The sun faded and a grasshopper leaped to his shirtfront, then hopped again. A few yards off his horse started to graze. Back in the street Clatt, who had always been proud of his silver belt buckle, had no chance to regret it. Up the street George Blazer was kneeling beside a post on the boardwalk in front of the express office.

  His days with Sherman were long since gone, but his skill with a rifle was not. The belt buckle flashed an invitation and George accepted it. He was a quiet man who liked to read his newspaper over coffee in the evening, but he did not like a bunch of would-be tough men shooting up his hometown. You could have laid a silver dollar over the spot where the two rifle bullets went in, but you couldn’t have covered with a bandana the place where they emerged.

  Clatt was down, and nobody knew who accounted for the other two, as several men were shooting and all showed evidence of skilled marksmanship.

  Suddenly the thunder of guns, suddenly the flashes of gunfire, the plunging horses, the shouts, cries, dust, and then silence with the smell of dust and gunsmoke.

  A horse walked away up the street.

  Another ran away between the buildings. Others, faithful to their training, stood where their reins had fallen.

  Borden Chantry thumbed cartridges into his almost empty gun. People emerged on the street.

  Prissy came from the post office. “Sheriff Chantry! You should be ashamed of yourself! What did we elect you fort So this sort of thing wouldn’t happen! What will people say?” “I’m sorry, ma’am,” Borden said. “We tried to spread the word that this was a quiet town. I’m afraid somebody didn’t get the message.” Big Injun, his rifle across the desk, came outside. “I’ll get the buckboard an” pick “em up.” Tyrel Sackett came up the street with two frightened outlaws. They stared at the fallen bodies, faces gray. Denny Dinsmore felt like throwing up. He didn’t want to, not in front of all these people. Clatt and Monson, dead.

  Kim Baca was looking at his gun. He had fired two shots and could not remember when or how.

  He had no idea whether he had even hit anything.

  Denny licked his dry lips. “What’s for us?” he asked, glancing at Chantry.

  Men who tried to steal the money others worked hard to earn got no sympathy from him. “For you?

  If you’re lucky you may get no more than twenty years.” Denny stared at him. Denny was twenty-two.

  He had thought an outlaw’s career would be wild and exciting. He turned and stared at the bodies in the street. He had never really liked any of them, especially Monson. He had always been a little afraid of Monson, but he had eaten with them, told stories and talked, he had slept in bunkhouses with them and in camps.

  Now they were dead.

  Twenty years? Why, he would be over forty when he got out! His youth gone. He’d be an old man, he’d What about Mag? Why, she would never even know what happened to him! And after a little while she wouldn’t care. “Mister,” he pleaded. “You put your money on the wrong card,” Chantry said. “You dealt your own hand, and in this life a man pays to learn. You just didn’t learn fast enough.” He walked away and held out his hand to Sackett. “Thanks,” he said. “Thanks very much.” “I’ll buy you a drink,” Tyrel said, “or coffee.” “Later,” Bor
den said. “I’d better go speak to the wife first. She’ll have heard all that shootin”.” She was standing waiting, her face white and still.

  “Borden? Bord? Are you all right?” “All right, Bess. They were going to rob the bank. We had to stop them before somebody got hurt.

  We stopped them.” “You’re all right? You’re sure?” “I’m all right, Bess. I will have to go back and see everything straightened up, though. There was some shooting. was “I heard. Was anybody-his I mean, was.-?” “Some outlaws. Tyrel Sackett arrested two of them. There were some pretty bad men among them.

  Some men just can’t understand there isn’t any free ride. Everything has its price.” “I can’t stand it, Borden. I just can’t! I’m not cut out for this. Borden, I want to go home. I want to go back east! I want to get away from all this!” “I know, Bess, but what would I do back there?” “I don’t care. Anything is better than this!” “Well”-he turned away-“I’ll give it some thought, honey. Now I’ve got to go finish my job.” He walked to the cafe and stopped outside. Already the bodies were gone, dust thrown over the blood, the loose horses tied up.

  What could he do back east? What would he do?

  Sackett stood in the door of the Bon Ton.

  “Come on in, Bord Hyatt Johnson’s here, and George. We’ll have some coffee.” He turned toward the door, looking back once more. This was his town, and it was safe once more.

  Firelight flickered on the canyon walls, somewhere in the distance a coyote howled. Wind stirred through the pines and fluttered the flame of the fire.

  “You set up an’ eat. You an’ me, we’re goin’ to have a long time together. How long you live depends on how I get treated, understand? You give me any back talk or any trouble an’ I’ll kill you. “Wouldn’t be the first woman I killed, although the others were squaws. I never had nothin’ like you.” “You will hang for this.” He chuckled harshly. “Yeah? Who is goin’ to know it ever happened? You sure ain’t goin’ to be in no shape to tell anybody, an’ who could find this place? Nobody’s been in here for fifty year! Maybe more’n that.” Out in the darkness a horse stamped and blew. Ducrow straightened up from the fire, listening.