Webb's Posse (16 page)

Teasdale paced back and forth across the plank floor until the woman appeared again a few minutes later. “He's asking for you, Sergeant,” she said in a low whisper. “You best come on in here quickly. This poor boy is in a terrible way.”

Inside the small room, Teasdale took off his hat and stooped down beside the cot where Frieze lay, shirtless now. His pale chest glistened with sweat, and the color of the skin surrounding the bullet hole had turned puffy and bluish green. The young soldier looked into Teasdale's eyes, trying hard to keep from shivering. “Don't know what the fuss is all about, Sergeant,” he said. “I can ride once I get a shirt on and get some water in my belly.”

“I want you to lay still here, Trooper,” said Teasdale. “These folks will take good care of you.”

“Stay here?” Frieze offered a weak chuckle as if the sergeant were joking. “I can't stay here. What about the Peltrys and our Gatling gun?”

“We'll take care of it, Trooper,” said Teasdale. “You need to rest and get rid of this infection. Do you understand me?”

Trooper Frieze saw the resolved look in Teasdale's eyes and felt cold terror move through him. “No! I'm not dying, Sergeant! Don't even think it! It's bad luck thinking it!” As he spoke and tried to raise himself up, firm hands seemed to appear out of nowhere and pressed him back down onto the cot. He looked into the faces of the townfolk gathered around. In his fevered state, he pictured them as grim angels of death. “Mother of God, no!” he screamed. “Don't leave me here! Don't let me die! I can't stand it!”

“Don't fight the hand of the Lord, young man,” said the lady's voice, soothing and frightening at the same time. Frieze looked at her face as Sergeant Teasdale backed away from the cot. Behind Teasdale,
Hargrove and Benson came into the shack, Benson closing the blade of his pocketknife. “Hargrove!” Frieze pleaded. “Don't let him leave me! Tell them I'm not dying! Please tell them!” Sweat glistened on his pale, trembling face.

“Come on, now; get a hold of yourself, Frieze,” said Hargrove. “That bullet has killed you—you know it as well as we do. Let these good people comfort you, soldier. It's all that's left for you to do.”

Frieze sobbed for a second, then stopped himself and looked from Hargrove to Trooper Benson. “Tell them I'm all right, Benson! Please tell them I'm going to live.”

Doyle Benson looked away, his eyes filled with tears. “I'm sorry, Frieze,” he said. “There's nothing I can do.”

“We've got to go, Frieze,” Sergeant Teasdale said softly. “I give you my word the Peltrys will pay for this.”

The three soldiers backed to the door and slipped outside. Lyndell Hargrove closed the door behind them and leaned back against it. “Those rotten, good-for-nothing murderers! I won't rest until they're all dead.”

“Me neither,” said Doyle Benson, running his sleeve across his eyes.

“I'm glad you both feel that way,” said Teasdale. “Let's see if you mean it.”

“What are you talking about, Sergeant?” asked Hargrove.

“You'll see.” From the far end of the narrow path, Campbell Hayes led a big paint horse toward them, Junior the hound trotting alongside. Over his shoulder he carried a feed sack filled with dried beef, beans, coffee and flour. Sergeant Teasdale nodded toward him, seeing the pile of civilians' clothes
draped over the paint horse's saddle. “He's riding with us, men,” said Teasdale.

“That old relic?” said Hargrove. “What on earth for, Sergeant?”

“His name is Campbell Hayes,” said Teasdale, “and he knows the Mexican hill country. That's good enough for me.”

“The hill country?” said Hargrove. “You don't think for one minute that we're—”

“That's right,” said Teasdale, cutting him off. “I had him find us some clothes to wear once we cross the border. We can't go over there in army uniforms.”

Hargrove sounded stunned. “We can't cross the border,
period
, Sergeant!” said Hargrove. “We'll wind up facing a firing squad! If not theirs, then one of our own!”

“I'm crossing,” said Teasdale. “If you don't want to come along, that's up to you.”

“Damn it all,” said Hargrove. “I don't know who's the craziest: you for doing this or me for following you.” He turned to Doyle Benson. “Get our horses, Trooper. We're about to make some strange history for ourselves.”

It was noon when Abner Webb and Will Summers led their posse onto the narrow path through the broken timber gates at Little Sand. They kept Cherokee Rhodes riding between them. Sergeant Teasdale, Hargrove and Benson looked up from busily preparing their horses for the trail and saw the six horsemen come to a halt, staring at them from twenty yards away. Having changed into civilian clothes, Teasdale suddenly realized there was nothing to identify him and his men as soldiers. “Don't touch that pistol, Hargrove,” Teasdale warned, seeing the horsemen spread out abreast across the path.

“Whatever you say, Sergeant,” Hargrove said quietly. His hand inched away from the holster on his hip. “But that's Cherokee Rhodes with them. He's one gunrunning, back-shooting, low-down sonsabitch.”

“Duly noted,” said Teasdale. “Now stay calm.” He took a slow step sideways, away from the horses.

Will Summers glanced up at the short stubs of rope hanging from the poles where earlier Doyle Benson had cut the bodies free. He looked around at the smoldering ashes of the hide wagon and the debris the Peltrys had left in their wake. “Does this look familiar, Deputy?” Summers asked Webb without taking his eyes off the men standing before them.

“Yep,” said Webb, “but that's not the Peltrys.”

“I know it,” said Summers. “Stay back here while I find out who it is.” He heeled his horse forward, raising his hands slightly.

Sergeant Teasdale kept his hand away from his pistol and stood facing Summers in the middle of the narrow street. “Who goes there?” Teasdale asked.

Summers stopped his horse fifteen feet away and turned it sideways to Teasdale. “We're a posse out of Rileyville,” said Will Summers. “I've got a feeling you already know who it is we're trailing.” He sat still, watching for a reaction. “I'm Will Summers. Now, who are you?”

Teasdale cocked his head slightly. “Will Summers, the horse trader?”

“Yep, that's me. Do we know one another?” Summers asked.

“No,” said Teasdale. “I've heard of you though. You sold some horses to us up at Fort Bent a couple of years back.”

“Were they good horses?” Summers asked.

“As I recall, yes, they were,” said Teasdale.

Summers nodded, looking relieved. “That was me, sir. Now, who are you?”

“I'm Sergeant Lawrence Teasdale, United States Army,” said Teasdale.

“You could have fooled me,” said Will Summers, looking Teasdale up and down. As he spoke, Deputy Webb and the others inched their horses forward until Webb stopped close beside Will Summers.

“We're out of uniform at present,” said Teasdale. “We're also tracking the Peltrys.” He nodded along the pillaged plank shacks. “This is some of their handiwork. They left two men hanging from poles.”

“Yes, sir,” Campbell Hayes cut in, taking a step forward from the horses, his big buffalo rifle in hand.
“And one of them was my best friend, Rance Stofield.” His eyes narrowed coldly on Cherokee Rhodes. “Is that man your prisoner?”

“No, he's not,” said Will Summers. “But we ain't exactly friends either.”

“He's agreed to show us where the Peltrys' hideout is down in Mexico,” Abner Webb cut in.

“Call him our scout,” Summers offered.

“I see,” said Teasdale. “We heard gunfire late last night. Was that coming from you people?”

“Yes, it was,” said Summers. “If you'll invite us down from our saddles, we'll tell you all about it.”

“Step down then,” said Sergeant Teasdale. “It may be that we can do one another some good.”

“I wouldn't be at all surprised,” said Summers, easing down from his saddle, the men behind him doing the same.

“You can't trust anybody riding beside Cherokee Rhodes,” Hayes said to Teasdale in a lowered voice.

Teasdale looked down at Junior the hound standing near Hayes' feet as the riders stepped down from their horses. “Why didn't that mutt warn us that somebody was coming?”

“I don't know,” said Hayes. “Maybe he didn't think they was the enemy.”

“And neither do I,” said Teasdale. He looked around at Hargrove and Benson. “Finish up with the horses and supplies. Let's see what these men have to offer.”

Summers, Webb and the other possemen formed a half circle in front of the hitch rail. With their reins in their hands, the men squatted down on their haunches or rested with one knee to the dirt and listened as Summers, Webb and Teasdale exchanged stories. A gallon jug of whiskey made its way into the circle and moved from man to man. When it had
come into Wild Joe Duvall's hands and he'd lowered it from his lips and wiped a hand across his wet mustache, he passed it to Sherman Dahl beside him and said between the two of them, “Is my boy Eddie doing like he's supposed to in school?”

“He's headstrong,” said Dahl without diverting his attention from Sergeant Teasdale as he told Summers and Webb about the stolen Gatling gun, “but he learns quick. He can be a bit of a bully sometimes, but I try not to let that happen.” Dahl raised the jug, drank from it, then passed it on to Bobby Dewitt. “He could use some help at home on his arithmetic.”

“Headstrong, eh?” Wild Joe beamed with secret pride, passing over the arithmetic part. “I expect I know where he gets that
headstrong
from.” Then his expression turned more serious as he caught himself and said, “But I'll get on him about the bullying part. I always hated bullies when I was a kid. If I saw somebody bullying others, I usually whopped the living hell out of them. Made them beg for mercy.”

“I'm sure you did,” said Dahl, trying to listen to Teasdale.

“What does that mean?” asked Wild Joe.

“Nothing, sir,” said Dahl. “Nothing at all.”

“Oh…” Wild Joe fell silent for a moment, then said, “Well, I'm glad we got this chance to talk some. I think it pays to know the man you're fighting next to, don't you?”

“I couldn't agree more,” said Dahl.

“I'll tell you what,” said Wild Joe. “You're not a very big feller. If we get into a hard scrape with the Peltrys, you just holler out…. I won't let them hurt you. That's my personal promise.”

“Thank you,” said Dahl. “I feel much better.”

On the other side of Sherman Dahl, Bobby Dewitt leaned forward and looked around at Wild Joe Duvall.
“Hey, Wild Joe, didn't you see what the schoolmaster did to that outlaw, Vertrees? He cut him from asshole to appetite.”

“I know it,” said Wild Joe. “I'm just offering is all.”

“Both of you shut up and listen,” Edmund Daniels hissed.

“Sure thing, Edmund,” said Bobby Dewitt, stifling a whiskey belch. Having taken a long swig, he passed the jug into Edmund Daniels' eager hands. “By the way, how's the head?”

Edmund Daniels just stared at him, not sure whether or not the young cowboy was making fun of him. Finally he said as he raised the jug to his lips, “Don't worry about my head; worry about your own.”

Hearing the stir of conversation among Daniels and Dewitt, Deputy Webb cast a firm gaze in their direction. But before he could say anything, Edmund Daniels said, “Don't worry, Deputy. We're not missing a thing. Our eyes and ears are wide open.”

Bobby Dewitt snickered under his breath at Daniels' words, but then he shut up quickly when Daniels turned his eyes to him. Sherman Dahl and Wild Joe Duvall stared ahead and listened as Sergeant Teasdale explained how the Gatling rifle had kept jamming on them. “But God help us if they ever get it working properly,” he said, looking from one face to the next, one hand reaching out for the jug as it came into sight.

Inside the whitewashed shack, Trooper Frieze heard the sound of voices out front through a fevered haze. In a thick voice, he asked the woman standing over him, “What are they doing out there?”

“Shhh. Lie still now, young man,” she whispered, pressing him back down as he tried to rise up onto
his elbows. “The fighting's all over for you. It's best you lie still here what time you've got left. Make peace with your creator.”

Her words sent a new shiver up his spine. “I'm not dying, damn it to hell!” Frieze shouted in his hoarse, trembling voice. “Do you hear me, God?” He raged at the plank ceiling. “It's me, Chester Frieze! Tell this old bag that I'm not going to die! God! Somebody! Anybody!
Please!
”

Outside, the men gathered around the hitch rail looked toward the sound coming from the side window of the shack. As the woman stepped over and closed the window, cutting Frieze's voice in half, Teasdale said to the men, “He's one of my troopers. His wound infected overnight. He's starting to talk out of his head. I regret to say he's not going to make it.” The sergeant stopped for a second as if to let his words sink in.