Lawless Trail (25 page)

“He all but come out and announced it to me,” Wes said, rubbing his bowed forehead. “I just wasn't listening as close as I should have been.”

“Wait a minute, brother Wes,” said Ty. “You can't blame yourself for this. As he spoke, he uncocked his Colt and stuck it down in his trouser waist. “Baylor was his own man. If he took a notion to do this, he sure as hell didn't want anybody talking him out of it.”

“I'm the leader, Ty,” said Wes. He uncocked his Colt and holstered it. “I let him down, hitting him all at once about getting out of the business.” He looked around and ran his fingers back through his hair. “I'm telling you, this job has been a bad deal coming out of the deck. We lost Bugs . . . lost our money. Now Baylor's blown his fool drunken head off. I don't know what's to happen next.”

Almost before he got his words out of his mouth, he heard a calm voice speak to them from just inside the open door. They spun around in place, their hands gripping their gun butts.

“Don't do it,” the Ranger said in the same calm tone. “I'm Arizona Ranger Sam Burrack. You're both under arrest for robbing the bank in Maley, Arizona Territory.” He held his Winchester cocked and aimed at Wes Traybo's chest. “Both of you ease your hands up away from your guns. I will not say it again.”

The brothers did as they were told, but Sam noted they did not move their hands very far from their weapons.

“Let me make sure I understand, Ranger,” said Wes. “You come all this way, from Arizona Territory, just to arrest us,
outside
your jurisdiction.”

“You heard it right. That's the deal,” said Sam. “We have an agreement with the Mexican government called the Matamoros Agreement. You can read the whole thing while you're awaiting trial.”

“That's real considerate of you, Ranger, but we're not going,” Wes said. “You and I both know there's a posse of railroad detectives wanting our hides nailed and tanned. Like as not, they're close behind you right now.”

“They won't bother prisoners of mine,” the Ranger said.

“Easy enough to say, Ranger,” said Ty. “But for all we know you'll turn us over to them and let them settle up with us the railroad way.”

“Not while I've got the money they keep in the bank at Maley,” he said.

The mention of the money struck a note with the Traybos. Sam saw it in their eyes.

“How is it that
you
have
our
money, Ranger?” said Wes.

The Ranger noted that Wes already knew the money was gone.

“I took it from the Mexican sergeant who resacked it and hid it at the ruins,” Sam said. “You can ask Fatch Hardaway when he gets here. I rode on ahead when we heard the gunshots.”

“We heard he was riding with you,” said Ty. “Why's he riding behind you?”

“He took a bullet in his belly from that posse you're talking about. They ambushed him and Carter Claypool. Claypool's dead.”

“You're lying, Ranger,” said Wes. “Carter Claypool would eat that posse alive.”

“Not this time,” said the Ranger. He nodded toward Claypool's short-barreled Colt standing behind his belt.

Seeing it for the first time, Wes winced and appeared to let go of all the tight wires that held him together.

“Damn . . . ,” he whispered.

“Claypool's dead. So's this one,” Sam said, nodding toward the body in the stall. “I heard you talking from outside. That's Baylor Rubens,” he added. “Your men are dead. It's time you call it a run.”

The two looked at each other, the fire appearing to have left their eyes.

“What's the chance we won't hang, Ranger?” Wes asked.

“Slim,” said the Ranger. “But it's worth a try. Neither one of you has to die here today. Who knows what happens tomorrow?”

“Can you swear to get us to Maley without the posse swinging us from a tree?”

“No,” said the Ranger. “But you've got my word I'll try. If they kill either of you, they have to kill us all.”

The brothers shot another glace at each other.

“Have you ever been a long rider, Ranger?” Wes asked, only half joking.

“Unbuckle your gun belt and let it fall, Wes,” the Ranger said without reply.

“All right, what the hell?” said Wes. “Take us on in.” He unbuckled his gun belt and let it drop to the straw floor. He raised his hands higher and relaxed. Ty raised his hands also, following suit, his mending shoulder only allowing him to lift his arm a few inches.

“Play your cards right, brother Ty,” Wes said, “you could learn the trade of stonemasonry over the next ten to twenty years.”

“I heard what happened, the detective's shotgun going off,” the Ranger said. “A good lawyer can whittle some time down for you.” As he spoke he stepped forward with two pairs of handcuffs he carried behind his belt. He picked up Wes' gun belt and looped it up over his shoulder. He raised the Colt from its holster, unloaded it and stuck it back in place.

“You sound like you're trying to help us, Ranger,” Ty said. He gave a weak half grin.

“I'm not trying to help you, Ty,” the Ranger said. “But I'm not trying to hurt you either.” He slipped Ty's revolver from his waist, unloaded it and shoved it down behind his gun belt, beside Claypool's short-barreled Colt.

“Are you able to ride?” he asked Ty.

“Absolutely, I am,” Ty replied.

With both brothers disarmed, Sam handcuffed them to a barn post while he saddled their horses. When he'd finished with the horses, he uncuffed the brothers from around the post, recuffed them and gestured them toward the barn door.

Following them from behind, he led their horses out of the barn toward the cabin.

“Stonemasonry, huh?” Ty chuffed and gave a short laugh. “Is that a kind way of saying I'll be working on a rock pile?”

“See, brother Ty, you've learned something about it already,” Wes said.

In the rocks on the hillside overlooking the Traybos' hideout, Rio DeSpain and L. C. McGuire lay huddled out of sight beside Dallas Garand, the three of them having followed the trail up to the stone canyon on their own, seeing all the many tracks headed on up into the canyon even though the main trail was gone. Once above the clearing in the rocks, they had rested silently, watching the cabin. When the two shots exploded, they'd started to make their move as the two brothers ran to the barn. But catching sight of the Ranger riding up toward the cabin at a quickened pace, Garand decided to wait and see if the Ranger might make their jobs any easier for them.

“Here they come, Mr. Garand,” Rio DeSpain said, seeing the Traybo brothers swing open the larger barn door and walk into the afternoon sunlight. Behind them he saw the Ranger moving forward, leading the two horses.

“By thunder!” said Garand. “We've got the sons a' bitches now.” He levered a round into his rifle chamber and aimed it down over the top of a rock.

“What about the Ranger, Mr. Garand?” DeSpain asked, also taking aim beside him.

“What about him?” Garand asked gruffly.

“Want us to kill him too?” McGuire asked.

Garand had to think about it for a moment, watching the three men and two horses cross the rocky dirt yard.

“To hell with him,” he said. “If we don't kill him too, he'll be a thorn in my side the whole way to Maley. We'll kill him and blame the Traybos. Nobody has to ever know but us three.”

Rio DeSpain turned, looked at McGuire and grinned.

“You mean, dead men tell no tales, now, do they, L.C.?” he said.

“None I've ever heard,” said McGuire.

“Pay attention to what we're doing, both of you,” said Garand. “We can't afford to mess this up.”

“We've got it, Mr. Garand,” said DeSpain, taking aim again as he spoke. “All that bank money is just lying inside that cabin, waiting for us to take it.”

“And take it we certainly will, all the way back to Maley,” said Garand. “I won't have you turning to thievery on me. I'm in charge and don't you forget it.”

“We won't forget,” said DeSpain. As he and McGuire took aim, afternoon sunlight glinted off their rifle barrels.

•   •   •

In the yard below, the Ranger caught a glimpse of the glistening metal that could only be one thing and stepped up his pace.

“Get inside, both of you, quick,” he said.

The brothers stepped it up, but they gave each other a look, walking side by side.

“What's wrong, Ranger?” Wes asked. As he spoke, he reached his cuffed hands inside his shirt and slid out the two-shot derringer he carried secreted behind the top button of his trousers.

Before the Ranger could answer, Ty staggered and started melting down sideways. Wes jumped over to grab him.

“He's falling, Ranger!” he said.

The Ranger saw Wes reach out for his falling brother. But at the last second, instead of grabbing Ty, who suddenly righted himself, Wes spun around and knocked the Ranger's rifle barrel upward. The Ranger saw the derringer coming into play and ducked back from it as the first shot whizzed past his head.

“Shoot him, brother!” shouted Ty.

The derringer swung around ready to fire again, catching the Ranger off balance. Sam tried to right his rifle barrel for a quick shot, but he already knew he'd be too late. The barrel of the derringer gaped close to his face. But as Wes Traybo pulled the trigger the shot went wild; he slammed forward with a loud grunt as the sound of the rifle shot exploded from within the rocks on the hillside.

“Wes!” Ty shouted as another rifle shot resounded behind a spray of dirt kicking up at Ty's heels. Seeing his brother fall to the ground with a bullet hole spouting blood from his chest, the young gunman threw himself toward him. A third shot zipped past his back and kicked up more dirt.

The Ranger grabbed Ty and shoved him on toward the cabin, knowing there was nothing to be done for Wes Traybo.

•   •   •

On the hillside, L. C. McGuire and Rio DeSpain took aim again. As they both fired, Ty Traybo flew forward onto the ground in front of the Ranger as they ran up the path to the back porch. The Ranger dived to the dirt and half rolled, half crawled around the corner of the cabin. He fired toward the hillside.

Garand watched with satisfaction as the Ranger's bullet hit the hillside twenty yards away. “Fine work, L.C.,” he said. He saw the look on DeSpain's face. “You too, Rio,” he added.

A strange look came upon Rio DeSpain's face as he levered a fresh round into his smoking rifle chamber.

DeSpain chuckled in the same dark tone Garand had heard the night on the trail when DeSpain had spat in the sergeant's horse's face. “That ain't nothing. Watch this,” he repeated, also the same as he'd said that on the trail. “We're taking the money, and you'll tell no tales about it.” Behind him L.C. gave a little laugh.

“No, Rio, please!” Garand shouted. “Don't shoot! The money's yours! You can have it!”

“Hell, we already know that,” said DeSpain, rolling a wad of tobacco across his tongue, tucking it into his other cheek. He fired three shots into Garand as quickly as he could lever the rifle and pull its trigger.

•   •   •

In the dirt around the corner of the cabin, the Ranger heard the three quick shots, but he noticed that no bullets struck the ground anywhere near him. All he heard was one of the bullets scream as it ricocheted off a rock.

As he looked back and forth along the rocky hillside, he caught sight of Wes Traybo crawling toward the cabin, leaving a wide smear of blood in the dirt behind him. Sam had no idea what had just happened up on the hillside, but it didn't matter, he told himself. He'd given these two outlaws his word. If the posse killed either of them, they would have to kill them all. He couldn't let them die in the dirt without offering himself alongside them.

This is crazy. They just tried to kill you. You don't owe them a thing,
he
told himself as he scooted up the side of the cabin and levered a fresh round into his rifle chamber.

“I know it, but here goes,” he murmured under his breath, and in a crouch, he rushed from behind the cover of the cabin and bounded across the rocky yard to where Wes Traybo lay crawling on his belly.

•   •   •

In the cover of standing rock and high brush at the edge of the clearing, Fatch Hardaway stood crouched, his left arm closed around his bandaged belly wound. With his rifle barrel, he reached forward and parted the brush slightly, enough to see the Ranger running across the backyard of the cabin toward Wes Traybo, who lay bleeding in the dirt.

“Damn it, Ranger, what the hell's wrong with you?” he asked under his breath. Farther up the path to the rear porch, he saw Ty Traybo spread flat on his belly, facedown. Looking up, he saw L. C. McGuire and Rio DeSpain—
Spanish Rivers
,
the rotten son of a bitch
—both riflemen working their way down the hillside from rock to rock.
Dallas Garand's men,
he told himself, having last seen the two riding away with Garand after killing Carter Claypool and his poor horse. “Damn near killing me too,” he whispered aloud to himself.

He started to raise his rifle to his shoulder.

No, wait,
he thought. As of right now, he reminded himself, he wasn't a part of this fight. He let the rifle lower slightly, knowing that the second he pulled the trigger he would be in this up to his chin, belly wound and all. If there was ever a fight he had no business getting involved in, this was it. He could back away, let them shoot each other up. . . .
What about the reward money?
he asked himself.

He let out a breath, considering it, wondering if, as Claypool had said, the Ranger had concocted the whole story as a way to set everybody up. He lowered the rifle again, seeing the two riflemen reach the rocks at the bottom of the hillside and begin firing at the Ranger, who had started dragging Wes Traybo to his feet, the two of them struggling up the path to the rear porch.

“See?
Damn it
to hell,” he said to himself. “You never know who's lying and who's telling the truth.” In the dirt yard, he saw a bullet from one of the two rifleman hit the Ranger and knock him away from Wes Traybo and off his feet. The Ranger's Winchester flew from his hand. Hardaway saw the Ranger struggle toward the rifle. He saw Wes Traybo down again and crawling almost aimlessly.

He winced and raised his rifle again as the riflemen stalked forward out into the open now, growing bolder, knowing they had this thing won.

“Don't do it, Fatch,” he ordered himself, cocking the rifle, taking aim. “Don't do it! All you're going to get out of this is shot all to hell! And you're wounded already!”

Yeah, well,
he thought, ignoring his own warning. “In for a penny, in for a pound, or however that goes,” he said aloud, taking close aim. He squeezed the trigger and felt the rifle buck in his hands. Behind him his horse jerked back from the sound of the gunshot, then settled and shook out its mane. Hardaway levered a round and took aim again, seeing both riflemen turn and fire blindly at the smoke above his cover of brush.

•   •   •

The Ranger didn't waste a second. Seeing the riflemen turn their fire away from him toward the high brush, he struggled up into a crouch. He made it to his rifle and limped over to Wes Traybo, who was still trying to crawl to the cover of the cabin. Traybo left a dark trail of blood behind him. Blood ran down the Ranger's leg from a deep graze across his left hip.

“Let's try this again,” he said to Traybo, dragging him forward, struggling to get him to his feet as he looped Wes' arm over his shoulder. He caught a glimpse of DeSpain turning back toward them, firing a shot that hit the ground close to Wes Traybo's bloody back. L. C. McGuire had moved across the rocky yard toward the smoke rising from the high brush.

Before DeSpain got relevered and aimed, Sam had Wes up and staggering forward with him. They dropped out of sight behind a stack of wood on the rear porch as DeSpain fired again. His bullet thumped into the firewood.

“I'm coming now to kill yas. Here I come, you sons a' bitches!” he sang out loudly, adapting his words to the tune of an old familiar hill song.

“You're hit . . . too, Ranger. But you come for me?” Wes managed to say to the Ranger. “Why?” He gazed at the Ranger's face, looking puzzled.

“I gave my word,” Sam said, jerking a bandanna from around his neck and jamming it into the gaping hole in the outlaw's chest.

“But we—we tried to . . . kill you,” Wes said, his voice growing weaker.

“So I noticed,” the Ranger said grimly. He placed Wes' bloody hand on the bandanna, hoping Wes could keep it there.

Wes gestured his fading eyes toward DeSpain walking across the yard, singing his crazy death song to them.

“They might . . . have just saved your life . . . shooting me,” the wounded outlaw said.

“It's a thought,” the Ranger said. He tried levering a round into his rifle and found he was out of bullets. He felt his empty holster and saw his big Colt lying in the dirt across the yard where he'd fallen. He grabbed the short-barreled Colt from his waist and loaded it quickly with bullets from his gun belt.

“I'm coming now to kill yas. Here I come, you sons a' bitches,” DeSpain continued to sing, his voice sounding closer. Sam was able to clear hear him lever his rifle now after each shot. “I'll be riding six white horses when I come.”

“I'm coming now to kill yas. I'm coming now to kill yas. I'm coming now to kill yas, when I—” His lyrics stopped beneath the loud bark of the short-barreled Colt. The Ranger had stepped out suddenly from behind the stack of wood, leveled the short-barreled Colt and fired. One bullet, one blast of orange-blue fire.

DeSpain's eyes flew wide open and stuck there; the Ranger stood with the short-barreled Colt curling smoke, still leveled at him. He watched a dark trickle of blood seep down from the bullet hole bored through the center of DeSpain's forehead. The detective's hat had sailed to the ground behind him, afloat on a red frothy mist.

The Ranger looked at Claypool's Colt, not recalling if he'd ever fired a gun—including his own—that fired so clean and smooth, and with such perfection. Looking at the gun, he felt like telling it,
Good job
. Instead he looked off toward L. C. McGuire, who was still working his way from rock to rock, firing into the high brush. Sam started to pick up his rifle and reload it, gauging the distance toward the stalking rifleman. But before he could do so, he saw L.C. stand up to move forward, only to be knocked backward a full flip as a shot resounded from the brush.

“There's that,” he said quietly, seeing Hardaway's arm reach out of the brush and wave toward the cabin.