Meet Me in Moredo (A Big Jim Western Book 2) Page 11

  “How about the tinhorn?”

  “Who?”

  “Sandy-haired hombre with light-blue eyes and a pearl stickpin. He probably wears a pearl ring as well.”

  “That sounds like Keefe. He’s an old sidekick of Farnsworth’s ramrod—Rocky Wesson. Yeah, I’ve only seen Keefe the once. Hear tell he arrived at Box Five only a few days back.”

  “Just in time to take a hand in Farnsworth’s plans?”

  “Sure. Maybe they sent for him. I don’t know.”

  “All right,” frowned Jim. “Keep writing.”

  He returned to the wooded rise and the waiting stallion a short time later, hefting his beloved Winchester and with his Colt reloaded and McDade’s signed confession folded and stowed in his hip pocket. There could be no escape for McDade or Farrier. He had searched the house for whisky and had fed them as much as their insides could accommodate; not only were they securely bound to chairs in the kitchen, they were sleeping drunk.

  His visit to the Triangle ranch-house had been rewarding—and then some. He need search no further for tracks of the other desperadoes; cutting sign of other riders quitting the creek would have been a difficult chore anyway, even in this bright moonlight. He knew now that the boss-thief and his men would return—had already returned—to the Box Five headquarters.

  Seven dangerous adversaries, and none of them wounded. The odds against his surviving this pursuit were dwindling, but he wasn’t about to turn back. If there could be one chance—just one slight chance—of his apprehending his brother’s killer, the man who now called himself Keefe—Jim was willing to take that chance, and to hell with the consequences.

  ~*~

  Until sundown of that day, Deputy Adam Matthews and his eight man posse searched to no avail. They were scouting the terrain in the vicinity of the creek, getting nothing but saddle sores, and the eight towners were becoming increasingly impatient, disgruntled and sour-tempered.

  “Hold it!” Adam suddenly became serious, as he raised a hand to halt the posse. The sun had almost set, but a lone rider was clearly visible; he had emerged from the willows over by Arroyo Culebra and was hustling his mount up a rise. “Haven’t I seen that hombre before?”

  “Well, he sure ain’t no bandido,” opined one of his volunteers. “That’s Kip Stone from the Farnsworth spread. I’d know him anywhere.”

  “I wonder if Stone has sighted any strangers hereabouts,” frowned Adam. “Well, we might as well ask.” He rose in his stirrups, cupped his hands about his mouth and yelled at the top of his voice. “Stone! Hey, Stone! Hold on there ...!”

  For the deputy and his posse, what followed was startling and unexpected. The rider dug in his spurs and emptied his holster. His Colt boomed, as his mount struggled up toward the summit of the rise. He was shooting wildly, but his first two bullets came too close for comfort. One carried away Platt’s hat. One actually tugged at the material of Adam’s shirt, a few inches below his left shoulder.

  The youthful lawman reacted instinctively, easing his boots from his stirrups and hurling himself to ground, the while he angrily called upon the rider to desist.

  “This is a law posse, Stone! Let up on that shooting—you damn fool!”

  But Stone cut loose again, and Adam felt compelled to retaliate. There was something heart-chilling, something frightening, yet infuriating, in the feel of a bullet whining past his face. He felt the air-wind of it. Profanity wasn’t one of his weaknesses but, in this case, he made an exception; he swore luridly as he drew and cocked his Colt.

  Stone had almost reached the summit of the rise. His gun boomed again and the slug kicked up dust a short distance from where Adam stood. The sudden dust-puff startled some of the horses. They reared. Adam stood crouched, his left elbow rammed into his side and the hand cupped to act as a prop for the barrel of his .45. He squinted along the barrel and squeezed the trigger and, despite the waning light and the lengthening range, his bullet struck its mark. Stone’s feet parted company with his stirrups. He fell backwards over his horse’s rump, somersaulting to the ground.

  “I—uh—I guess it’s just as well you downed him,” mumbled Platt, who had retrieved his perforated headgear. “He was trigger-happy, that’s for sure. He might’ve killed one of us.”

  “I hope I’ve only winged him,” growled Adam, as he remounted. “Because I’m gonna be mighty curious about why he cut loose at us.”

  He headed for the slope at a hard gallop with the posse in hot pursuit. Up almost to the summit they hustled their horses, raising a pall of dust and then forming a circle about the man sprawled face downwards on the soft earth. Adam, the saddler and two other men dismounted and rolled him over. He was a rough-looking waddy, thick lipped and broken-nosed. He had lost his grip on his Colt. There was little color in his cheeks but plenty on his shirt—a spreading stain of red. His voice was hoarse, as he gaped up into the deputy’s face and said his piece.

  “All right—Matthews—you got me ...”

  “Why in blue blazes ...?” began Platt.

  “Hold it,” cautioned Adam. The possible significance of Stone’s desperate action had struck him like a physical blow. “Let him tell us why—in his own way.”

  “Loco ...” grunted Stone. “I musta been—plain loco—to think I could outrun your whole posse. Took me by surprise you did, Matthews. I—didn’t spot you till you hollered ...”

  “Stone,” said Adam, “you’re running out of time.”

  “I’m a goner—and I know it,” panted Stone.

  “You know what a preacher would say right now?” challenged Adam. “He’d advise you to rid yourself of all guilt. Get it all off your chest, Stone, while there’s still time.”

  “Are you thinkin’ ...?” whispered Platt.

  “I’m thinking it’s too much of a coincidence,” muttered Adam, “and I’m remembering that Box Five is a rough outfit—and that Farnsworth is always in debt.” He stared down into Stone’s ashen countenance. “Is that how it was? Did Farnsworth ...?”

  “He—sure planned it good,” said Stone. He winced, gritted his teeth. “Guess I oughtn’t—turn traitor now ...”

  A grim-visaged member of the posse solemnly asserted: “A dyin’ man’s only loyalty should be for the Lord—and for himself.”

  “We’d all be rich, Gil said,” sighed Stone.

  “Meanin’ Gil Farnsworth?” prodded Platt.

  “Yeah—sure ...” Stone licked his lips, winced again. “All them well-heeled Mex cattlemen on the train—Gil figured to grab all their dinero—all their jewels. Well—we sure did it—didn’t we? But I was the last one—to quit the creek. Rest of ’em—all back at the ranch by now ...”

  “That figures,” Adam sourly remarked to Platt. “Farnsworth won’t make a run for it—as long as he thinks he’s safe at Box Five.”

  “’Frisco ...” breathed Stone.

  “How’s that again?” demanded Adam, leaning closer to him.

  “’Frisco—is where Gil is gonna—trade all them jewels for cash—but not yet awhile—not—yet—awhile …”

  His voice choked off. He died still with that expression of anguish and pain stamped on his face and, at this moment, Adam felt pity for him. Very quietly, he called an order.

  “Harper, Judson—you put Stone on his horse and take him straight to Moredo, then send out messengers to find the other posses. They’re to tell Sheriff Dagget and Chet all about this—tell ’em the rest of us will be at Box Five. Maybe we’ll need help, and maybe we won’t.” He rose to his feet, nodded to the other men. “You gents all ready? You savvy what we’ll likely run into?”

  “A shootout—nothin’ surer,” grunted Platt. “Well, damnitall, we didn’t join this posse to go shake hands with the coyotes that gunned Griff Bowes.”

  “Come on,” said Adam. “We’ll ride all the short-cuts to Box Five.”

  A half-hour later, Gil Farnsworth’s foreman heard the thudding of hooves and, clear and ominous in the moonlight, saw the posse fanning out
, beginning to surround the ranch buildings. From the barn, he hurried to the ranch-house, yelling the alarm to all hands. By the time Deputy Matthews and his men were in position and demanding Farnsworth’s surrender, every Box Five employee was in position inside the ranch-house.

  “It isn’t that big a posse,” Farnsworth opined. “We can fight them off.” He readied a rifle, crouched by a window. “Get set, boys.”

  “What I don’t savvy,” fumed Wesson, “is how’d they get wise to us?”

  “The hell with guessing,” growled Farnsworth. “Let’s scare them off—and fast!”

  Ten – Ride the Showdown Trail

  The task of locating the Box Five headquarters was made easy for Jim Rand; he needed only to ride toward the ominous sounds carried to him on the night breeze, the steady clatter of rifle-fire, the harsh roaring of shotguns, the sullen booming of .45’s.

  As he approached, riding fast and hunched low in his saddle, more than one wild slug came whining his way. He slid his Winchester from its scabbard and turned the charcoal toward a stand of cottonwood some short distance from the Box Five harness-shack. Behind that shack, Deputy Matthews, Platt and another man had taken up their stakeout position. Platt was sprawled on the shack-roof, cutting loose with a shotgun. Matthews was crouched at the right rear corner of the shack, the other man at the left.

  Suddenly conscious of Jim’s presence, Adam turned to frown at him. The big man had tethered his horse in the copse with the other animals and had dared the booming guns of the outlaws by dashing to the shack across an open stretch. Adam guessed his identity at once; he hadn’t forgotten that the man who had started out to track the train-robbers was wearing a head-bandage.

  “I guess you just have to be Rand,” was his muttered greeting.

  “And you?” asked Jim, as he rammed a shell into the breech of his rifle.

  “Matthews,” said Adam. “Deputy-sheriff.”

  “How big a posse is this?” Jim demanded.

  “Eight, counting myself,” said Adam. “I have two men wounded so far, but they aren’t hurt so bad they can’t fight.”

  “Just flesh wounds?”

  “That’s all. One of them is around back. Another is planted this side of the corral.”

  “This is the Box Five spread—of course.”

  Jim made it a statement rather than a query: Adam glanced at him again. He had to raise his voice now, because the clamor of gunfire was increasing.

  “You bet it’s Box Five, Mr. Rand. We found out the Box Five boss—hombre name of Farnsworth—is the coyote that led the raid on the northbound.”

  “Sure,” nodded Jim. “I know.”

  “You know?” challenged Adam.

  “You might as well take this now,” said Jim. He dug the folded sheet of paper from his pocket and offered it to the deputy. “It’s a confession. I coaxed it out of a Triangle waddy name of McDade.”

  “Holy smoke!” breathed Adam. “The Triangle outfit was in cahoots with Box Five?”

  “That’s how it stacks up,” nodded Jim. He inched around behind the deputy, took aim at a window and cut loose, triggering three shots in rapid succession. There was an answering hail of lead. Bullets kicked splinters out of the shack’s rear corner, forcing Jim and the deputy to huddle lower. “I found the jasper I killed during the raid on the train. They’d buried him in a box canyon.”

  “That leaves four Triangle guns,” frowned Adam.

  “Two,” Jim corrected. “Both hogtied and sleeping drunk. Their sidekicks kind of argued with me—at gunpoint.”

  “Deputy!” called the man crouched at the other corner. “I’ll tell you what we ought to do! Why don’t we smoke ’em out—set fire to the house ...?”

  “It’s bad enough we have to shoot it out with ’em this way, Wilkie,” retorted Adam. “If we smoked ’em out, we won’t have clear targets. You’re forgetting about the chuck-boss and his wife. They’re old. They can’t move fast. Either or both of ’em could get caught in the line of fire.”

  “The Baxters are as crooked as the rest of ’em,” scowled the sharp-featured Wilkie. “And they ain’t so old they couldn’t get clear.”

  “They’d get clear,” said Adam, “so long as none of my trigger-happy volunteers mistake ’em for Box Five gun-hawks. No siree, Wilkie, there’ll be no burning. We’re gonna keep ’em pinned down until they run out of ammunition.”

  “The hell with that,” complained Wilkie. “They must have a damn-blasted arsenal in there—the way they’re throwin’ lead at us!”

  “The trouble with being a lawman only twenty-two years old,” Adam quietly confided to Jim, “is all the older men think they’re wiser than you.”

  “How about the chuck-boss and his wife?” demanded Jim.

  “The Baxters are old and ornery,” muttered Adam, “and you can bet they were hoping to collect their share of the loot. But I still wouldn’t burn that ranch-house. Moredo County law doesn’t make war on women—not even a fire-eating old witch like Chloe Baxter.” He threw another glance toward the corner that had been Wilkie’s position. “What the hell ...?”

  “Young Adam!” called Platt, from atop the roof. “We better cover for Wilkie! Looks like he hankers to get himself killed!”

  Wilkie had broken cover and was dashing toward the barn. As he ran, he fanned a burst from his Colt, scattering lead about the front of the ranch-house. Jim, Adam and Platt added the weight of their guns and, while Wilkie hustled across the yard, the din of shooting increased to thunderous volume.

  “He’s made it to the barn,” observed Adam. “And now what? I wonder—damn his hide—if he tries to set fire to that ranch-house, I’ll ...!” He risked death by exposing himself, the better to admonish the man in the barn. “Wilkie—you mind what I told you ...!”

  Jim reached up, seized Adam by his shirt-collar and hauled backwards and downwards—and not a moment too soon. For the second time that evening, Deputy Matthews felt the air-wind of a bullet.

  “That one had your name on it,” growled Jim. “Don’t do that again, young feller. Keep your head down.”

  “You—sound like a man used to giving orders,” said Adam.

  “I was a sergeant in the cavalry,” Jim told him.

  “I believe you,” declared Adam, with a rueful grin. “I sure do believe you.” And then, as Platt called to him again, his grin faded. “What did you say?”

  “It’s a firebrand,” yelled Platt. “Wilkie must’ve found some coal-oil in the barn. He just now hurled a firebrand up to the ranch-house roof—and now it’s caught afire!”

  “Hold your fire!” Adam called to his men. Then, when their shooting had subsided, he yelled to the defenders of the ranch-house. “Farnsworth—Wesson—and the rest of you in there! Listen to me! The roof’s afire! In a couple minutes the whole house will be a death-trap! Send the old folks out, Farnsworth!”

  Inside the house, while the aged Jake and Chloe Baxter were taking refuge under a bed, and while four of the desperadoes resumed shooting from the front windows, Farnsworth, Wesson and the man who called himself Keefe held a brief council of war. They were crouched under the rear parlor window. Farnsworth’s left arm was crooked about the grain sack containing the valuables stolen from the passengers on the northbound.

  “Matthews isn’t fooling,” he quietly pointed out. “The roof is afire.”

  “Damn right,” grunted Wesson, “and all of a sudden I’m glad we never off saddled our horses.”

  “I’ve been watching,” offered the tinhorn, “and it’s my hunch they still haven’t found those horses.” He raised himself slightly, scanned the area to the rear of the house, paying special attention to a clump of mesquite. “Gil, I’d swear none of them are anywhere near the brush. What’s more, there’s a helluva lot of smoke out there.”

  Farnsworth rose up to take a look, and swiftly made his decision. The smoke was thickening. Clouds of it were penetrating into the parlor and kitchen, and the draught created by the smashed windows was
carrying it into the front yard.

  “Keep ’em busy, boys!” he yelled to the four men trading shots with the posse. “When I give you the word, hustle out front and head for the corrals! It’s gonna be every man for himself.”

  “And us for us—eh, Gil?” chuckled Wesson.

  “Well?” challenged Keefe. “What’re we waiting for?”

  “I don’t know how any of them could spot us through all that smoke,” muttered Farnsworth. “All right. We couldn’t pick a better time than right now.”

  He was first to clamber through the window. Toting the sack, running bent double with his Colt ready in his right fist, he made his dash through the mist of smoke to the mesquite clump and the saddled horses. Wesson and the tinhorn climbed out and dashed after him. The air was still filled with the din of gunfire and, just as they reached the brush, they were sighted and challenged by a posse man armed with a shotgun. Farnsworth whined and fired, and the shotgun discharged skyward as its owner collapsed.

  Out front, from his vantage point atop the harness-shack, Platt yelled a warning to all his colleagues.

  “They’re comin’ out—but they’re comin’ shootin’!”

  The four hardcases, suddenly discovering that they had been abandoned by their employer, had panicked and were spilling out into the front yard. Rashly they retained their guns—and used them. As they darted toward the corrals, shooting fast, Wilkie downed one from his stake-out in the barn entrance. Platt accounted for another. Jim traded shots with the third and, with a well-aimed bullet, put his gun-arm out of action. The fourth dropped his gun and raised his arms.

  By now, a side wall was ablaze and the center section of the roof was beginning to cave in. Jim and Adam both broke cover, as the posse man wounded by Farnsworth came stumbling into the front yard—brightly illuminated by the dancing flames.

  “You won’t find Farnsworth or the other two inside!” he called to the deputy. “Farnsworth shot me—and then all three of ’em hightailed it away toward the north trail.”

  “Who were the other two?” demanded Adam.

  “One of ’em was Rocky Wesson—the ramrod,” said the wounded man. “The other jasper was rigged like a tinhorn. I never saw him before ...”