Webb's Posse (20 page)

Doc Murdock considered it quickly, watching Moses and Goose Peltry mount their horses and ride off toward a stretch of tree line along a flat terrace. “All right, men. Go do it…but keep these knotheads from seeing you. Meet up with us down the trail. I'm starting to think I could scrape a better bunch of fighting men off a shithouse floor.”

“We're gone, Doc,” said Andy Merkel. Murdock watched the two men make their way around the high wall of rock and disappear onto a downward footpath.

Behind their rock on the lower side of the trail, Will Summers said to Abner Webb and Sergeant Teasdale, “Listen…they've stopped firing. I believe that schoolmaster has turned this fight around for us.” The three looked upward, seeing only the tip of Sherman Dahl's rifle barrel reach out from behind a rock and fire down into the line of fleeing gunmen.

But as they spoke, Abner Webb caught sight of the two riflemen, Andy Merkel and Duckbill Grear, working their way down the slope on the other side of Hargrove and the men still clinging to the side of the mountain on the narrow footpath. “Look there!” he said.

“Blast it,” said Teasdale. “Hargrove should have
seen them coming!” Behind his rock sixty yards away, Hargrove lay scanning the ledge above the trail. “The men on the path will never know what hit them,” Teasdale said. “I better slip around behind the gunmen before they get into firing position.”

“No, you stay here,” said Summers. “I'll take care of them. If there's any bounty on them, I want to be the first one to know it.” He slipped down onto his belly and crawled away into the rock and sparse brush along the steep slope.

Teasdale looked at Abner Webb as Summers moved unseen across the sloping mountainside. “What kind of man is he that bounty money is all that matters to him?”

“I can't say what kind of man he is anymore, Sergeant,” said Webb. “I thought I knew until the other night. But now I can't say.” In his mind, Webb pictured Will Summers pulling the trigger on the shot that killed Davis Gant. As he saw the scene play itself out, he recalled every second of it, every move, every flicker of an eye…. Yet, as he saw the outlaw fall dead on the ground, he realized that he could not recall the look on Summers' face as he let the gun hammer fall. “I can say this,” he said, looking back at Teasdale and shaking the scene from his mind. “I trust him with my life.”

Through the brittle brush, Will Summers belly-crawled until he'd circled down behind the two gunmen, coming to a spot behind a deadfall of sun-bleached pine. He raised his rifle up over the pine trunk just as a shot exploded from one of the men's rifles. On the exposed footpath, Summers watched Doyle Benson sink down on his knees, barely hanging on with Bobby Dewitt's help. Blood ran down the center of the young soldier's back. Bobby looked back and forth helplessly, realizing there was no
place to hide. “Damn you to hell!” he shouted. “You could give us a fighting chance, you damn, yellow cowards!”

Summers raised up and took aim at Duckbill Grear as Duckbill prepared for a shot at Bobby Dewitt. Both rifles exploded at once. Bobby Dewitt slid down on his knees beside Doyle Benson, the two wounded men weaving back and forth, supporting one another.

“Two damn good shots, Duckbill!” said Andy Merkel, rising to his feet beside Duckbill. When Duckbill didn't answer, Andy turned to him and saw the dark blood running down from under Duckbill's hatband. “Duck! Are you okay?” Andy asked, seeing the strange distant look in Duckbill's eyes as the blood ran down into them. A strange sound came from Duckbill's chest. He toppled forward and landed flat on his face, the force of the fall sending his hat out onto the ground and exposing the large, steaming hole in the back of his head.

“Whoa now!” Andy Merkel sidestepped away, looking all around, his rifle chest-high, his thumb across the trigger. He'd only backed up three steps when Will Summers' shot hit him in his thigh, slamming him to the ground and sending his rifle sliding downward in loose gravel and dirt. He lay still on the ground for a second, listening to the footsteps move toward him through the brush and then stop.

“Throw your pistol out,” said Summers, crouched and ready for whatever move the wounded man might try to make. “I know you're wounded; you best give up now. The rest of the gang has gone off and left you.”

“They'll be back for me,” said Andy Merkel, lifting a big Hoard pistol from his holster and cocking it quietly, listening, judging how close the footsteps
were to him. “If you know what's good for you, you'll cut out now while you're still able.”

“Drop the gun,” said Will Summers, stepping suddenly into view, his pistol out at arm's length, cocked and ready.

But Andy Merkel would have none of it. He swung the big Hoard up. Will Summers shot him in the forearm. The pistol flew from Merkel's hand. He writhed in pain, clamping his left hand around his right forearm. Blood flowed down the sleeve of his filthy buckskin shirt. “Son of a bitch!” he bellowed. “What the hell is this? You shoot a man in the arm?” His enraged eyes glared at Will Summers. “You think that's all it takes for me? Then you're dead wrong!” He snatched at his boot well for his knife, but Will Summers kicked him backward, then stepped forward and clamped a boot down on his good hand, pinning it to the ground.

“Settle down, outlaw,” said Summers. He looked at the body of Duckbill Grear, the dirty buckskins, the ragged headband and bits of bone and hair souvenirs pinned to the dead man's shirt. Then he looked back at Andy Merkel and said, “You two don't look like any of the Peltrys to me. Maybe we ought to talk about it some.”

“Slap a loaded gun in my hand, mister—that's all we've got to talk about. We'll see which one leaves here with a hole punched in his gut.”

“I just
might
slap a gun in your hand if you play your cards right, outlaw. Tell me what I want to know about the Peltry Gang. I'd sure hate dragging you and your stinking friend's carcasses up this mountainside.”

“I never rode with the Peltrys before now, and neither did he. And I don't have a diddling-damn thing more to say to you, mister,” said Andy Merkel.

“You might not think you do right now,” said Summers, grinding his boot down on Merkel's hand, “but I bet you will before it's over.”

Teasdale and Abner Webb gathered the men together in a defensive circle behind a large rock near the edge of the trail. The men had rounded up the horses and tied them a few yards away in the narrow shelter of a crevice between two tall upthrusts of rock. A few minutes had passed since a single pistol shot resounded from the direction Will Summers had taken in order to stop the two riflemen. Teasdale, Webb and the remaining survivors kneeled beside Bobby Dewitt and Wild Joe Duvall, both of whom were wounded. The pale, limp body of Doyle Benson lay beside them, his hands crossed on his chest.

“That poor…soldier boy,” Wild Joe said, his voice strained by the bullet wound in his big stomach. “Is he? Is he…?”

“Yeah, Joe,” said Abner Webb, holding a canteen down close to Joe's bloody lips. “He's dead. Here, sip you some water.” As Joe managed a short sip, Abner Webb cut a glance to Sergeant Teasdale and shook his head slowly.

“You…don't have to hide nothing…from me,” said Wild Joe. “I know I'm done for.”

“Sorry, Joe,” Webb said softly. “I wouldn't have had this happen for nothing in the world.”

“Hell…I know it, Deputy,” Wild Joe responded, his voice sounding weaker as he spoke. He turned his head sideways toward Bobby Dewitt. “Looks like me and you…are going to take the long ride together, huh, Bobby?”

“It looks it, Joe,” Bobby Dewitt said, his eyes glistening with tears. “I ain't feeling nothing down my legs.” He struggled to hold back a sob. Then he
asked, “Where's Will Summers? I've got to tell him something before I go.”

“He'll be here directly, Bobby. Just try to hang on a while,” said Webb.

“I ain't got long,” said Bobby Dewitt, trying to rise up on his elbows and look around for Summers.

“Lie still now, Bobby,” said Webb, pressing him gently back down on the dirt. “Is it anything you can tell me instead?”

Bobby Dewitt grimaced and seemed to consider it for a second. “Naw…I best try to hang on till Summers gets here.” He looked at Sherman Dahl, who had come down from his rocky perch and crouched on one knee, his rifle butt propped on the ground beside him. “Schoolmaster, I hope you won't hate me once you hear it.”

“I won't hate you, Bobby, whatever it is,” said Dahl.

“Sure you can't tell me?” asked Abner Webb.

Bobby Dewitt searched Webb's eyes for a second, then let out a breath of resignation. “All right…. I'll tell you, Deputy. It was me who let the Peltrys know that the sheriff was out of town that day.” He looked down, ashamed to see the faces of the men around him. “I—I knew you'd be busy with the Daniels' woman. I told them that too.”

“Aw, Bobby, no,” said Webb with regret. “I wish you hadn't told me that.” Junior the hound stepped forward and poked his wet muzzle into Bobby Dewitt's face. Webb pulled Junior back as the dog tried to lick the wounded cowboy's face.

“I feel awful about it,” said Dewitt. “I figured I better square it up before I meet my maker.”

Edmund Daniels stood back quietly from the others and stared off into the distance as if he hadn't heard Bobby's words. Sergeant Teasdale cut a glance
to Daniels, but only for a second, starting to get the picture of what had gone on between Webb and Daniels' wife. “Man oh man,” he whispered under his breath. The bruises on both Webb's and Daniels' faces began to make sense to him.

“What's done is done; it can't be changed now,” said Deputy Webb. “But I'm glad you told us, Bobby, just to get it off your chest.”

A painful moan came from Wild Joe Duvall, causing the men to turn away from Bobby Dewitt. “Lord God! This is…starting to hurt something fierce,” said Joe.

“Hold onto my hand, Wild Joe,” said Deputy Webb. “It'll help some.”

Wild Joe's bloodsoaked gloves closed around Webb's right hand and squeezed. “Deputy…if it ain't no trouble…will you bury me some place pretty, not where it's just dirt and rock?”

“We'll try, Joe—you've got my word,” said Webb. “I'll mark your spot real clear, so's if your wife and boy want to have you moved back home, you won't be hard to find.”

“That's good, real good, Deputy.” Wild Joe fell silent for a second, squeezing his eyes shut. A trace of a tear came to the corner of his eye. “I don't know how my boy'll take this. He thinks I'm a hero. I promised him…a shooting finger from one of the Peltrys.”

“I'll talk to him, Joe,” said Webb. “I'll tell him you done the best you could.”

“I never really was…a tough fellow, Deputy. I just played it that way…for my boy, you know? Wanted my son to grow up a good man.”

“I understand, Joe,” said Webb. “We all understand.”

Wild Joe looked around at the faces of the men. “I
had no business out here. Wish I could change it some way. Just stay home with my boy, my woman. All the rest never meant nothing, Deputy. I wish I'd known it then…”

Wild Joe Duvall's eyes glazed over as his breath ceased in his chest. His head went limp and relaxed on the ground.

“Damn the Peltrys for causing all this,” Abner Webb said, his voice soft and cracking a bit as he spoke. “And damn us for coming out here. This was madness.” He stood up from beside Wild Joe's body and rubbed his tired eyes. “I can't keep watching good men die like this. This is like being stuck in some kind of nightmare with no way to wake up.”

“Take it easy, Deputy,” said Sergeant Teasdale, seeing Abner Webb starting to come unraveled. “We're all upset right now. But we'll feel better after we get these men buried and get on our way.”

“Yeah, we'll get on our way all right, Sergeant,” said Webb, trying to steady his voice. “I'm taking these men home—what's left of them. This killing is going to stop right here and now. Dahl, you and Daniels get your horses ready. We're heading back for Rileyville.”

“The hell you say!” Sergeant Teasdale gave him a look of disbelief. “Take a look there, Deputy.” He pointed down at Doyle Benson's pale, dead face. “That young soldier is dead because he followed me and you. He gave his life for this manhunt. Now, because some blood's been shed, you want to strike up and cut out with your tail between your legs? Not unless you walk through me first, Deputy.” Teasdale took a firm stand, his feet shoulder-width apart. “I owe this trooper that much.”

“Don't face off with me, Teasdale. I'm warning you!” Webb growled. “I'm not going any farther, and
I'm not going to fight you or anybody else over it.” He looked back at Sherman Dahl and Edmund Daniels. “Let's go, men. We don't have to stick with this.”

“Speak for yourself, Webb,” said Edmund Daniels. “I said I'm staying, and I meant it. You want to show the world the color of your stool, suit yourself. I pegged you as a low, sneaking rat to begin with.”

“I reckon I deserve that from you, Daniels.” Webb bristled but kept himself in check, knowing Daniels' opinion of him. “I'm not going to argue with you either. Far as I'm concerned, you and I had our fight, and it's over.”

“There ain't a damn thing over between you and me, Webb. It won't be over until one of us is under the sod.”

“Have it your way, Daniels.” Webb turned his attention to Sherman Dahl. “What do you say, schoolmaster? Are you ready to ride back to Rileyville and put all this behind you?”

“If it's all the same to you, Deputy,” said Dahl in a soft-spoken tone, “I want to see this through.”

“So does he,” said Will Summers, cutting in as he stepped in among the others, a dusty feed sack hanging heavy in his right hand. “He's just blowing off some steam. Pay no attention to him.”