Bounty Guns (20 page)

“Tip,” Ball whispered.

Tip went over to the bed, fumbling for a match. He struck it just as Anna came running in. Ball, his mustaches unbrushed and jet-black against his wan face, was lying in bed grinning. A gun was in his hand, and his other arm was in a sling.

“It took an almighty long time to sight that gun left-handed,” Ball said hoarsely.

“Tip, they're coming!” Anna cried.

Tip wheeled and ran for the stair door. There was a blocky figure standing in it, and Tip shot blindly. He saw the man stagger, and Tip ran for him, hearing the pounding of the feet on the stairway outside. These were Bolling's gunnies, ready and primed for him. He caught the man before he fell and then heaved him down the stairway. He caromed into a man coming up, and they both went down, taking two others with them. Out on the street, somebody was shooting, and Tip dodged inside, slamming the door behind him and locking it. He went to the front windows and lifted up the curtain. The street was already alive with men running toward the stairway. He heard one man yell, “Surround the building!” and recognized Jeff Bolling's voice.

He wheeled to Anna. “Don't let them get Ball!” he said. “Load his gun!”

“Where are you going, Tip?”

“Out of here,” Tip said.

He ran back through the kitchen and looked out the window. Below, in the alley, he could see a half-dozen men. That way was out, even if he could jump. He went into Lynn's room. The roof of the adjoining building was swarming with men, now. He raced across to Ball's room. Two men were on the roof of the building on that side. Slowly, he let the curtain fall again.

“They out there?” Ball asked.

Tip nodded.

“Give up, son,” Ball said. “If they take you alive, you may be able to break that jail.”

“Nobody's takin' me anywhere,” Tip said thickly. “I got in this jam and I'll get out of it.” He went back to the front room and lifted the curtains again. The crowd in the street had thinned out now, scattering around the building.

Tip opened the door and peered out. Three men were waiting down there, guarding the stairs, while on the next roof, two more men were bellied down, pouring a fire into the window of Lynn's room.

Tip went back in the room, told Anna to stand out of the way, then picked up a rocking chair and hurled it through the window. He ran out the door then, and started down the stairs. The guard out in the open had turned to look at the chair that crashed into the street, and Tip was halfway down the stairs before he looked up at the stairs. Tip shot then, and saw the man go down. But the other guard poked his head and arm around the corner and started shooting.

Suddenly, from in between two buildings across the street, a strange six-gun took up the chorus. The guard who had been shooting staggered out into the open, tripped, and fell.

From across the street Buck's voice yelled, “Watch out, Tip! Get over here if you can!”

Tip hit the bottom step, jumped the boardwalk, and rolled under the tie rail, came to his feet and ran. A dozen guns from the roofs of both buildings opened up then. Buck came out from between the buildings, both guns blazing at the men on the roof. Tip ran, and with a haste that would not let him dodge. Slugs from the guns on the roofs in back of him kicked up dust in front of him and to the side of him. He lunged under the tie rail, tripped on the sidewalk, and got up again, making for the black wedge between the two buildings.

And then he saw Buck half turn and go down on the boardwalk.

Tip lunged for him, grabbed his collar, and yanked him into the darkness.

One there, Tip stopped, and Buck said, “The horses are back there, Tip. Go on!”

“You hit?”

“No. Go on.”

Tip said grimly, “You're hit.” He leaned down, picked up Buck's heavy body, and slung it over his shoulder, grunting under the strain. Already men were running across the street. He could hear their slugs drumming into the building fronts as he staggered back to the alley. Tip slung Buck across the horse in front of the saddle, then swung up behind him and roweled his horse. “Put a hand in that stirrup, Buck, and brace yourself.”

He streaked down the alley and across the street for the other alley mouth, just as the first man rounding the corner saw him and shot wide. They passed behind the feed stable, took the corner out into the main street, and Tip looked behind. The first riders, two blocks back, were just getting their horses.

Tip knew that a chase as unequal as this would result in only one thing, and that was capture. From here to the canyon mouth it was a straight speed race, and with Buck across his saddle he couldn't hope to win.

“Buck,” he said. There was no answer. Tip's belly went cold with fear. At the graveyard he dismounted and lifted Buck off. The pain of the moving roused Buck.

“I got to get them off our trail, Buck,” Tip said. “Where you shot?”

“The leg.”

“Is it bleedin' bad? Tell the truth!”

“Not very.”

Without another word Tip carried him into the graveyard, laid him behind a gravestone, then raced for his horse. His pursuers were past the feed stable now, just leaving the town. Tip swung into the saddle and roweled his horse. His tough little gray stretched out at a long lope, and Tip held him there. Bolling's men and the townsmen with them were shooting blindly in the night. Tip knew that he would have to lead them only slightly till the mouth of the canyon was achieved, and then ride back on the rim as fast as he could, before they wondered at the fleetness of his pony and looked for Buck along the wayside brush.

When he reached the park, he cut straight across it, barely out of gunshot of the posse. But once he was in the timber, he turned left sharply and urged his horse to its utmost. They skirted the park and came to the rim of the canyon after a long climb in the dark, and then Tip picked his slow way along the lip of the rim back toward the town. It was slow going, for the big boulders here and the rough terrain made for treacherous footing for the horse. Below him, on his left, the rim fell away abruptly to the canyon floor and the road. It seemed hours before he reached the spot where the graveyard should be. He had to guess, for the canyon below was pitch-black.

He stopped, ground-haltered his horse, and then peered down into the canyon. How deep was it? He tried to remember, and had only a vision of its steep sides. He took his lariat and uncoiled it, then found a jut of rock which was substantial enough to hold him and put the loop around it. Then he swung over the rim, and lowered himself, stretching out to touch the ground. But when he came to the end of the rope, his feet were still not touching. He hung there a second, remembering that a lariat is only thirty feet long, and that the cliff looked much higher than that. Then, cold sweat beading his forehead, he dropped. It was a ten-foot drop, and he landed on the moss and thick black dirt of the canyon floor and rolled over.

Coming to his knees and then his feet, he had a feeling of weariness and despair. How was he going to get out of here now? He moved forward and found that he was on the edge of the graveyard.

When he found Buck and shook him, Buck didn't answer. Tip risked a match, and saw that Buck was breathing and that he had bled much. Tip took off his neckerchief and tied it tightly around Buck's leg to stanch the flow of the blood, then looked about him. Bolling's men would soon think of the canyon itself and start beating their way back. They would catch them here helpless, unless Buck could walk. And Buck couldn't, and Tip wasn't going to leave him. He looked off toward the lights of the town, and came to a sudden decision. He picked Buck up, slung him over his shoulder, and started the slow walk to town, listening for the approach of horses.

It took an eternity to reach the edge of town. He did so without being noticed, and then drifted into the shadows at the side of the feed stable. He eased Buck to the ground, paused to drag in great gagging gusts of breath, then went in back of the feed stable. As on his second night here, the hostler was seated in the archway under the lantern, his chair tilted back against the wall.

Tip moved forward toward the doorway, walking quietly. There were several stalled horses feeding now, and their noise covered his. But when he came to the corner of the office, he was still twenty feet from the hostler. He debated pulling his gun and tying up the man, but then the hostler could help Bolling's crew find him. If he wasn't seen, the hostler would never know the identity of his assailant.

Tip pulled back into the shadows. His foot struck a loose horseshoe and scraped it on the boards. Tip gingerly removed his boot from it, paused, then stooped down and picked it up.

He moved to the office corner again, then took the shoe and pitched it through the archway, beyond the hostler. It clanged on a stone in the street, and the hostler jumped. He stared out into the dark street, then came off his chair and walked out of the doorway and stood looking out into the night.

When he decided to go back to his chair, he got only his head turned when Tip's gun barrel rapped him across the skull. After dragging him back out of sight, Tip swiftly saddled the strongest horse in the stable and led it out into the alley.

He brought Buck round, slung him into the saddle, held him there while he climbed up behind him, and then started north up the alley. He didn't pause at any of the streets, and nobody stopped him. In ten minutes they were out of the town, headed north up the canyon. When, a few minutes later, they climbed out of the canyon, Tip swung west into the timber.

He rode as long as he dared, for Buck was as limp as a sack of wheat, and his leg was still bleeding. Tip sought the best shelter he could find in the dark, traveling the dry creek beds. Presently he came to a trickle of water that flowed out from a ground seep by some thick grass. He put Buck down and lighted matches to look around him. The canyon walls here were steep, carved out by the storm waters of many centuries. If a rain came in the mountains during the night, this arroyo would run several feet of water. But Tip took that chance. It was well sheltered from sight by high banks, and there was water.

He washed Buck's leg, gave him his coat, took the slicker from behind the stolen saddle and covered him, put a loaded six-gun by his side, then listened to his breathing. A fever would probably set in, but Buck was strong enough to throw that off. Meanwhile, he had to get some help.

He left Buck there and took up the weary ride to the camp at the line. It was well past midmorning when he rode into the camp from the west having made a great half circle.

Lucy saw him first. She was saddling a horse, but when she saw him she stopped. Lynn was nowhere around.

“Where's Buck?” Lucy asked swiftly.

“Hurt, but not bad. He needs you, Lucy.” He looked around the deserted camp. “Where's everybody?”

“Bolling's men came and took Pate this morning,” Lucy said, her words spare. “Lynn went with them, so they wouldn't shoot him as soon as they were out of sight of the camp.”

Tip looked bleakly at her and then rubbed a hand over his face. He was so tired, this news made scarcely an impression on him. “Took Pate?” he echoed dully. “What for?”

“To get you, Tip. You see, they told me about your killing Cam and about getting away. They said they'd killed Buck and they'd get you when you came for Pate.” Suddenly Lucy turned away and started to sob. They were great choking sobs, coming from a heart too filled with grief.

Tip stepped down and took her in his arms and stroked her hair, and she cried on his shoulder.

“They can talk, Lucy, but it's just words,” Tip said softly. “I'll get Pate, all right—and they won't get me, either. Now, hush, girl.”

“Tip, isn't there any end to this?”

“Yes,” Tip said softly. “It's in sight.”

“But where is it? How will it ever come out?”

Tip smiled wearily over her head. “I don't know, Lucy. I know one thing, though. We'll fight 'em till our back's to the wall, and then we'll fight 'em through the wall if we have to. That's all.”

CHAPTER 14

When Joerns saw the two girls, Anna Bolling and Lynn Stevens, standing at the door of his office, he rose hurriedly and made a vague gesture with his hands. “Come in.”

Lynn walked straight up to his desk and said quietly, “Sit down, Mr. Joerns.”

Joerns sat down slowly, his face reflecting his uneasiness. Lynn leaned both hands on the desk and said, “That crew of murderers who have the law in their hands in this town came out and got Pate Shields last night. He's in jail now.”

“Uh—did they?” Joerns said.

“They did,” Lynn said. “He was over the county line, Mr. Joerns. What have you got to say about that?”

“How do you know he was?”

“I was there and saw them do it. I came into town with them, so they wouldn't shoot Pate!”

Joerns plucked at his lower lip. “Uh—what reason did they give for taking him?”

“They want to use him for bait, so Tip Woodring will come into town again and try to break him out.”

“What do you want me to do?” Joerns asked.

“Do?” Lynn blazed. “You took the law in your hands yesterday and made the Shieldses move out of the county! Take it in your hands again and go over there and tell them to free Pate!”

Joerns's face showed distaste. “I haven't the authority.”

“You find it!” Lynn blazed. She spoke in a low, level voice. “Mr. Joerns, I haven't shot a gun much. But if you don't get Pate out of that jail, I'm going to wait for you on a dark street and shoot you!”

Joerns's jaw sagged open. “My dear girl—” he began.

“Don't ‘my dear girl' me!” Lynn cried. “
Do
something!”

Joerns, his face red, rose, took his hat from the hook, and went out. Lynn and Anna followed him. They went over to the sheriff's office.