Showdown at Gun Hill (14 page)

Anson eyed Foley's horse as he took out a fresh wad of chewing tobacco and poked it back against his jaw.

“Interesting,” he said, positioning the wad into place with his tongue. “We heard a gunshot too . . . the same one you heard, I'm thinking.”

“Most probable,” the colonel said. He looked all around the trail, the downward slope over rock and brush, pockets of towering rock stands—endless possibilities for an ambush. “The man is a fool. Most likely his gun went off, he fell and his horse left him. I hate losing him, though. He's a fool, but he's
my
fool, if you know what I mean.”

“I do indeed, and I wouldn't worry too much, Colonel,” Anson consoled him. “I'm certain you'll be joining him real soon.” He smiled at his private little joke.

“I hope so,” said the colonel. “Even fools like him are hard to find in this line of work.” He paused, then changed the subject, saying, “We're headed back to Gun Hill, Bo.”

“Oh, really?” said Anson. “I've been telling these men we were heading across the border, going to kill us some ol' guerrilla riders.”

“There will be plenty of time for that in the coming days,” the colonel said. “First we're going back to Gun Hill to resupply.”

“Might I ask why, Colonel?” said Anson. As he spoke he raised his hat from his head and ran a bandanna across his moist, gritty brow.

The colonel turned rigid in his saddle. His face took on a stern expression.

“No, you may not ask,” he said. “Don't get too big for your britches, Bo.”

Anson glanced at Ape and the Cadys, Lyle with his eyes barely open and sitting as silent as stone. Then he turned his eyes back to Hinler.

“My apologies, Colonel,” he said quietly. He placed his hat back down atop his head and spat tobacco. Turning his horse slightly, his cocked rifle lying across his lap, he lined the barrel up with the colonel's chest. “I won't do it again,” he said resolutely. He pulled the trigger; the bullet lifted the colonel backward from his saddle and tossed him away like some broken rag doll.

“Tell that
fool
of yours howdy when you join him,” he said, staring down at the colonel's twisted body lying bloody in a puff of dust. Ape laughed beside him; the Cadys' eyes had flown open wide at the sound of the rifle blast.

A heavy barrage of gunfire followed in the wake of Anson's shot. As he looked up from the dead colonel, his men had made similar moves on the detectives. Their rifle shots at close quarters lifted the unsuspecting detectives from their saddles. Those preferring revolvers rode their horses back and forth among the fallen detectives, killing those still mounted and finishing off any wounded on the ground. Anson backed his horse a step, sat with a twisted smile and spat a stream.

“And that's
that
,” he said. “Some of you strap the colonel across his saddle. We're taking him to Gun Hill with us—with
heavy hearts
, I might add.” He looked around at the Cadys and said, “Now that we've got some time, we'll talk about that bribe money
.
I want to know if it's worth fooling with—how much cash does it take to bribe a territorial judge?”

The Cadys struggled, trying to speak against the tight bandannas around their mouths.

“Ape, pull down their gags,” Anson said to Boyd. “Let's hear what these
Cady brothers
have to say.”

“
Yee-hii!
Kill the hell out of them railroad sons a' bitches!” Mexican Charlie Summez shouted, laughing out loud. The sound of gunfire rose over the hill separating the main trail from the smaller lower path where the buggy sat with the two sheriffs aboard it. He turned to Roland Crispe and said, “I wish I had a bottle so's I could drink to a job well done.”

Crispe looked him up and down. “How do you know that's not the colonel's detectives
killing the hell
out of our gunmen?”

“Watch your language, Roland,” said Mexican Charlie. “I can read the thunder. Our men started the shooting and they ain't letting up none.” Gunfire continued to roar, waning some but still strong and steady.

Roland smiled and nodded.

“In that case, I'd drink to it too,” he said.

“I'm only sorry I wasn't in on it,” said Charlie, “instead of having to sit here eyeballing these two
lawmen.
”

“Lawmen?”
Crispe nodded at the buggy and sized the woman up. Deluna didn't like the look in his eyes.
“If you think that's a lawman sitting there, you need to be eyeballing through a pair of spectacles.”

“You know what I mean, Roland,” Mexican Charlie said. “What am I supposed to call her, a law-
woman
?” He shook his head. “That's the trouble with these gals today. They jump into a man's work and confuse every damn thing—don't even know what to call them. Makes my head hurt sometimes.”

“Yeah, well, let's get on back,” Crispe said. “Bo said we can ride in as soon as the shooting dies down some.” He started to turn his horse alongside the buggy. Let's go,
law-woman
,” he said to Sheriff Deluna, mimicking Mexican Charlie. “Get this rig rolling.”

But instead of unwrapping the reins, the woman stood straight up from the driver's seat. She had been sitting watching, studying, searching for any chance to make an escape. She knew the single worn-out bay pulling a two-horse rig wouldn't stand a chance getting away from two mounted riders. But she had to do something and do it fast before they got back to the rest of the men.

“I must relieve myself,” she said, as if struggling to maintain her dignity under the circumstance.

“Like hell,” said Roland. “Sit down and unwrap the reins and let's go. Relieve yourself when we get around the trail.”

“No, I'm going before we leave,” Deluna said. She stepped down from the buggy and started to walk away.

“I'll be damned. Do you believe this?” Crispe said, surprised by Deluna's defiance, he and Charlie glancing at each other.

“See what I mean?” Mexican Charlie said. He shook his head and let out a breath. “The world's gone plumb to hell. In France I hear they've got men doing things to them that no man should do—”

“Get back in this rig, woman!” Crispe shouted, interrupting Mexican Charlie. But Deluna walked on with rigid determination toward a stand of rock and brush ten yards away.

“She ain't
listening
to you, Roland,” Charlie said in sheer wonderment.

“Damn it,
that's it
!” Crispe said. “I'm smacking her around some!” He gigged his horse forward sharply.

The sheriff walked on, hearing Crispe's horse pounding up behind her. She heard the hooves sliding to a halt, dust billowing around her. She felt Crispe's arm reach down around her and yank her up onto his lap almost effortlessly.

“I'll teach you to ignore me,
law-woman
!” he shouted. He slapped her head back and forth with his gloved hands. But they were glancing blows and she took them, her hand slipping down into her boot well.

Mexican Charlie watched, rocking in his saddle with laughter at the sight.

“You teach her, Roland. Give it to her good!” he shouted, seeing the horse slow to a walk in the rising dust. He saw the woman fall from Crispe's lap and land on all fours in the dirt. Sunlight glinted off some metal object in her right hand. Dust began to settle around her. “What the hell . . . ?” he commented, seeing Crispe's horse stop and start to turn.

Charlie didn't know what was going on over there, but he knew something was wrong. He instinctively threw his hand around the butt of his holstered Remington. As he raised the revolver he saw Crispe topple sidelong from his saddle as the turning horse now stopped, facing him.

“Holy Joseph!” said Mexican Charlie, seeing the blood down Roland Crispe's front, the bone handle of a knife standing out of his chest—stuck deep from the looks of it. He swung his gun toward the woman. “You
murdering bitch
!” he raged. He tried to take aim, but before he could get his shot lined up, he saw the woman kneeling down on one knee, holding Crispe's gun out at arm's length in both hands.

Uh-oh!

She had him; he knew it, seeing her head tilted to one side staring at him down the gun sights. Blue-orange fire blossomed around her. Shot after shot pounded Charlie in his chest. The first shot lifted him backward, his faded Mexican poncho flaring out around him. The second shot nailed him only two inches from the first. Blood spewed from both wounds. The third shot hit him up under his chin as his body fell backward. The shot blew his hat off and sent a portion of blood, bone and brain matter streaking from the top of his head.

Sheriff Deluna stood slowly, the smoking gun still up and out, moving back and forth between the two gunmen lying dead in the dirt. Feeling the weight of the gun, she bent both elbows and held it up in front of
her. She reached her left hand over and gathered the reins to Crispe's horse. The animal hadn't flinched at the sound of gunfire.

“Good boy,” she said. She hurriedly led the animal forward and stopped at the buggy. Mexican Charlie's horse milled in the same spot, blood streaked and splattered on its rump. “Sheriff Stone, wake up, help me,” she said, raising her voice to the head-bowed sheriff. “We've got to get out of here!”

Stone had heard the shooting and already started to stir. As Deluna grabbed a handful of chest hair and shook him, he awakened fully.

“I'm awake!” he said, trying hard to shake the cobwebs from his brain. He looked around, at the two horses, at the woman, the gun smoking in her hand, then at the two dead gunmen lying sprawled in the dirt.

“Good—good shooting,” he stammered. He scrambled shakily out of the buggy. “Yes, I know . . . we've got to get going.” But he only seemed to stagger about shakily in place.

Deluna handed him the reins to Crispe's horse. When he took them she lowered the gun and watched him fumble with uncertainty. She hurried over, gun in hand, got the other horse by its reins and ran back with it. Stone was still standing looking confused.

“Sheriff, I need your help,” she said. “Do you even know what's going on?”

“Yes, yes. Now I do,” he said. He seemed to snap out of his stupor a little. He grabbed the reins to both horses and started to lead them to the front of the buggy.
Deluna grabbed his arm and jerked him and the horses to a halt.

“What are you
doing
?” she demanded.

“Tu-turning the . . . bay loose,” Stone stammered, his voice trembling, sounding pressured. “Hitching these two horses to the buggy?”

“Wake up!” Sheriff Deluna cried out. “We're not taking the buggy!” She swung a hard roundhouse slap across his face. The blow stung his jaw, staggered him backward a step. But Stone shook his head and looked at her.

“I'm—I'm sorry,” he said. “You're right. I'm good now.” He handed her the horse's reins, hurried over near Mexican Charlie's body and grabbed the Remington up off the ground. He looked himself up and down as if puzzled by his sparse wearing apparel. He looked at Charlie's bloody poncho, then glanced at Deluna as if needing her permission.

“Grab it, and let's go!” Sheriff Deluna said. “They're going to be coming anytime.” Firing from across the hills had fallen to only sporadic shots that silenced the wounded and dying.

“All right, I'm ready, let's go,” Stone said. He slipped the revolver into his empty holster. Even as they leaped up into the saddles, he couldn't help looking himself up and down once again. He wanted to know why he was wearing a loincloth. But he saw the impatient look on the woman's face and decided not to ask right then.

“Okay, don't shoot yourself,” Deluna said, nodding at the holstered Remington, the rifle standing in the saddle boot.

“I won't. I learned my lesson
two toes ago
,” Stone said, forcing the shakiness from his voice.

“I know you won't,” Deluna reassured him. She looked at him and nodded favorably, the slight trace of a smile on her lips. They turned the horses and raced away deeper into the hills, opposite the gunmen.

*   *   *

On the trail back to Resting just before dark, the Ranger had spotted a long line of black smoke streaking upward and drifting on the horizon. Knowing the smoke spelled trouble, he'd hurried on through the night. He stopped only long enough to rest his horse for a few minutes and give the animal a short drink of tepid water from the deep crown of his sombrero.

In the first purple-silver light of morning, he rode onto the streets of the badly burnt town. Along one side of the wide dirt street, the devastation was complete. The wind had swept the fire from end to end of the town and taken out everything: every business, shop, home, barn and toolshed. A church lay in smoldering ashes. Charred remnants of timbers and framing stood blackened in the growing morning light.

Across the street the homes and businesses were smudged, blackened and singed, yet they had escaped the spreading rage of the flames. Torches that had been thrown by Anson's men had burned out in sandy alleyway dirt, or had been trampled out by townsmen as soon as Anson and his marauders rode away. As they rode away, they'd taken any cashboxes left in stores, any ammunition, any guns that happened to suit them
and enough trail supplies and coffee to last them a long time. Anson had threatened to shoot any man caught trying to carry whiskey out onto the trail with him.

Inside the badly smudged and blackened cantina, two outlaws who had been sent deeper into Mexico to gather fresh horses stood looking out the smoky window at the Ranger riding in. One of them, Doyle Hickey, tossed back another drink of rye and let out a whiskey hiss. Out front a string of a dozen bareback horses stood bunched up, the end of their lead rope tied to a hitch rail.

“That's him all right,” he said in a low half growl. “Wonder if Bo knew it was my birthday coming up, and this is a present.” He chuckled at his dark little joke.

A Montana gunman named Jim Purser eased closer and stood beside him. He took the bottle from Hickey's hand, swirled its contents and raised a long swig.

“Bo ain't big on birthdays is what I'm guessing. I'm just a little put out that he didn't wait for us to get back to Bexnar before ripping out of there and burning this dung hill.” He grinned through a dusty black beard stubble lining his leathery face. “I like fires too, don't you?”

Hickey reached around without looking and took the bottle of rye back from him. “Not as much as I'd like shooting this Ranger's belly open, see what he et this morning.” He grinned, a little drunk first thing in the morning. Both of them watched as the Ranger looked over at the string of horses, rode to the hitch rail
and stepped down, rifle in hand. The two watched him give the horses a closer look.

“Ain't it just like a law dog?” said Purser. “Half the damn town lying in smoke and he's curious about these horses.”

“It does look peculiar, you have to admit,” Hickey said. “These horses are the only ones left here that ain't tail- and mane-singed.”

“That ain't our fault,” said Purser, the two still watching Sam as a townsman walked up to him. Both gunmen stopped talking, listening close, trying to make out the conversation.

“Thank goodness you're here, Ranger Burrack. This has been a mess from beginning to end.” He held out a smudged hand. “I'm Silas Radler. I often serve as temporary deputy when our sheriff is away—which she is right now.” He gestured a hand, taking in the half-burnt town. “You can see what's been done to us—a mounted raid. White men, I might add.”

“Any idea who they are?” Sam asked. He'd already caught a glimpse of the two men standing inside the cantina window.

“Oh yes. Half the town recognized them. They're a bunch of border trash who've drifted into Bexnar,” Radler said, pointing at the hill line between Resting and Bexnar, the Mexican border town. “Two Mexicans who live here said the leader is a gun-killer named Bo Anson.
Malas noticias
, they said he is.”

“Bad news,” Sam translated, turning back to the horses, giving them a closer look. “Where are Sheriff Deluna and Stone?” he asked.

“Sheppard Stone wandered off drunk, is what we heard,” said Radler. “Sheriff Deluna went out to deliver a baby. We haven't seen her since. The gunmen released a prisoner that Stone was supposed to be guarding. The prisoner rode off with them, carrying an anvil shackled to his leg.” He shook his head. “I have to say, I'm most concerned something has happened to our sheriff.”