Marauders' Moon (19 page)

The expression on Britt's face did not change, except perhaps that it showed a little more suspicion and a little more curiosity. “How?” he asked.

Webb reached in his pocket and drew out a folded piece of paper which he held out to Britt. Britt walked across to the table and took it.

“First,” Webb said, “that's a reasonably accurate map of the Broken Arrow buildin's, water holes, creeks and such, isn't it?”

Britt looked at it. “No.”

Webb frowned. “No?”

“Certainly not. If you got this anywhere near scale, the Roan forks is a good three miles farther west. And I never saw a spring where this is marked. And I—”

“Wait,” Webb said, fumbling in his pocket for a pencil. “That's important. Mark it down.”

“What for?” Britt asked, but he reached for the pencil. He was interested as well as mystified, Webb could see.

“You'll find out. Mark it down.”

Webb leaned down to mark the map. He was directly in the light of the overhead lamp, and his shadow made Webb's faint drawing almost invisible. Instinctively Britt glanced around and saw a chair to the side of him, quartering the table.

He sank into it, and at the same time Webb upended the table. Britt hit the chair and it fell away from him. He threw up his hand to pull at the table to catch himself. The table came over on top of him, and Webb in a dive right behind it.

Britt had already sensed the trap and his hand was clawing at his gun, but before he could wrap his fingers around the butt, he crashed down on his side, pinning his hand under him. And then Webb lighted on him, a hundred and seventy pounds of explosive fury.

Britt instinctively raised his arm to shield his face, and Webb drove a fist into his stomach. Gagging, Britt clinched with him, but Webb, spraddle-legged over him, was not to be tied up or thrown. He slugged again at Britt's belly and followed up by leaning in with crooked elbow. Britt's arm came down in a protective, automatic gesture. Webb, watching, seized his chance. As hard and quick as he could manage it, he drove a looping, knuckle-studded fist at Britt's temple. Twice, three times he slugged before he realized that his first blow had done the work. Like a deflated balloon, Britt relaxed under him.

Grinning, Webb rose and ripped the handkerchief from Britt's neck. He gagged him, then with strips torn from the blanket on the bunk securely trussed his hands and feet and then hog-tied him. It was the work of only a few more moments for Webb to strap on the shell belt and gun, and to lift Britt into the bunk and turn his face to the wall. Then he righted the table, spread the cards out on it, picked up the chair and threw the pieces in one of the bunks, and surveyed the room. To the casual beholder it would appear that Webb was asleep in his bunk, having left the light on.

At the door Webb paused and listened. No sound. He melted out the door into the welcome darkness, shutting and padlocking the door, and headed for the corrals. Boldly he walked into the saddle shed and by the light of a match found a good-looking saddle. Slinging it over his shoulder, he headed for the small corral behind the larger one. This was the corral where Bannister and Britt kept their ponies wanted for immediate use. It was not far from Gonzales's quarters in the barn, but Webb went boldly ahead. There was a light in the barn, too.

Webb singled out the horse that seemed the most gentle and saddled it. Midway through the task, he heard Gonzales call, “That you, Britt?”

“Hell with you, fella,” Webb said carelessly, and he saw the door shut. Gonzales, used to being addressed in this way by Britt, had withdrawn from the door.

Webb rode slowly out of the settlement toward the south, where there were no houses. Once free of the place, he headed southeast for Bull Foot. He had a horse and a gun and his freedom. All he needed now was a little information.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Mitch Budrow was whistling. If he had stopped to realize it, he would have known that it was the first time he had done such a thing in two years. But now he was happy. Things were different. He was a valued man of Wake Bannister's, and that meant protection against all law for years to come. Whenever Mitch had doubts about Bannister valuing him, all he had to do was think of what Wake Bannister had disclosed to him yesterday. Mitch was proud of that. Of course, he had done Bannister a great favor in telling him the details of the Bull Foot raid, but that was just a plain case of listening and reporting. No, it wasn't that. Bannister had seen his loyalty, had seen that he used his head, and Bannister was a man who rewarded those faithful to him. Mitch's reward was the sharing of this momentous secret. Why, even Ted Bannister over at the Spade B, where he was going this morning, hadn't been told all of Wake's plans. That's why Mitch was going to see him.

So Mitch whistled. It was a bright morning, with a ground breeze that would not die yet for an hour. Mitch looked at the country and found much to admire. He had left the Dollar just before dawn. Ahead of him, its grass ruffled by the slow wind, the land tilted up to a pair of buttes in the distance. He had followed the draw east of the Dollar, which Wake had told him would put him on the stage road to Wagon Mound. He was to follow this to the first road that forked to the left. This was the road to Ted Bannister's Spade B.

Mitch didn't have any trouble finding the road. He was riding along without a care in the world, a little of the old impudence back in his eyes.

When he saw a rider ahead of him coming his way, he made no move to pull off into the brush, although that was his impulse and he found himself wanting to. Why should he? He was a Dollar hand, as good a man as he would meet. Better, probably.

Mitch didn't notice the cowboy very carefully. He was walking his horse, and he had his head down, and Mitch could hear him whistling.

When Mitch was close enough to him, he called, “Howdy, friend.”

The man looked up quickly, and in the same motion a gun appeared in his right hand, and its barrel looked as big as a cave to Mitch.

Mitch dragged his gaze from the gun to the man's face, and seeing it, Mitch's happiness died. He licked his lips.

“You, Cousins,” he said faintly.

Webb nodded. “Better unstrap your belt and hang it over the horn, Mitch, then get down and lead your horse off the road.”

“This—this ain't a—”

“No,” Webb said quietly. “I don't reckon so, although I may change my mind after I hear your story.”

Mitch took off his gun belt and hung it over his saddle horn, then dismounted and wearily led his horse off the trail and down into a shallow arroyo. Webb followed and dismounted.

“Sit down, Mitch,” Webb ordered. “This may take some time.”

Mitch sat against the arroyo bank while Webb, holstering his gun, squatted against the other bank. Webb rolled a smoke and lighted it and then squinted at Mitch, who was waiting patiently, his face harried and humble.

“I got out last night, Mitch. I rode into Bull Foot to ask a few questions.” He regarded Mitch coldly. “Twenty-some riders ambushed, Mitch. Are you proud of it?”

Mitch cleared his throat. “I had to.”

“Had to sell out the man you worked for. Sold his friends, and him, too, to the guns of a damn maniac.”

“I had to,” Mitch repeated. “I always worked for Bannister. If I hadn't, I'd be dead now.”

Webb's eyes were cold with contempt. “Every ranch of any size in San Patricio is burned, Mitch. Wagon Mound is burned. Men are dead. Do you think your cheap carcass is worth that?”

Mitch said nothing.

“You work for Bannister, Mitch?”

“Yes.”

“He likes you, trusts you?”

Mitch looked up. “Yes,” he said cautiously.

“Did you know I was locked up with three of those Montana gunmen?”

“I heard it.”

“Know where they are?”

Mitch shook his head.

“They're up this trail, waitin', cached behind boulders. They got three hundred dollars apiece in their pockets from Bannister. They're waitin' for someone, Mitch. Know who?”

Mitch shook his head dumbly.

“You.”

Mitch licked his lips. The news settled on him like a blanket of grief. He didn't even doubt this redhead's word, because it all seemed true, seemed that this was what he should have expected all the time. All the other things, the trust that Bannister put in him, the confidence he professed in him, were artificial, and he might have known it. All Bannister wanted was to get him away from the ranch long enough to gun him. He said quietly, “Yes.”

Surprised, Webb asked, “You expected it?”

“Yes. If I'd used my head, I might have.” He stared down at the sand a long time, then he said calmly, “You one of 'em, too?”

“Not me,” Webb said. “I'm turning you over to somebody else. Somebody that'll want to talk to you just as I did.”

“Tolleston?”

“That's right.”

Mitch shuddered. His eyes were filled with blank despair. “Not that, Cousins. If that's my ticket, I'd ruther you shot me now.”

“Rather be shot than hung,” Webb murmured.

Mitch nodded. He knew what his life would be worth over there. He knew what it would be worth here.

Webb said, “Well, come along, fella. That's where you're goin' anyway.” He stood up, waiting for Mitch.

But Mitch did not stir. He only shook his head slowly. “No, I ain't. You better shoot me right now. I ain't goin' over to San Patricio.”

Webb said, softly, “The hell you're not,” and palmed up his gun.

Mitch scrambled to his feet, facing Webb. He was breathing hard, and his face was a dead white, his eyes wild with terror.

“Come ahead!” he said flatly. “Fight me or shoot me, I don't care which! But I ain't goin' to Tolleston unless I go dead. Come ahead!”

Webb hesitated before the genuine terror he saw. He felt the same kind of pity for Mitch that he felt for a cornered coyote, but, nevertheless, it was pity.

“Why, you damned fool,” he drawled. “If you stay here, Bannister'll hunt you out and gun you like he would a rattlesnake. Over there you'll get justice and a trial, which is more than you deserve!”

“Go ahead and shoot,” Mitch said doggedly. “Maybe I will get killed here. I know I will. But I'd rather do that than go back with you!”

Webb watched him, puzzled. His jaw muscles bulged a little and he hefted his gun. “I'm not goin' to fool with you, Budrow. If you're next to Bannister, you know what he's plannin'. Do you think I'm goin' to turn you loose, when I have a chance to find that out from you?” He took a step toward Mitch. “I'll tell you anything you want to know,” Mitch said quietly, “but you ain't takin' me alive!”

Webb stopped. He said slowly, “All right, tell it.”

And then, talking so fast that his words were almost a jumble, Mitch told Webb of Bannister's plans. It came out in a torrent of words, all of the details of the plan to buy the Chain Link, to divert the water before the railroad built in, and thereby crown the San Patricio defeat with this last sardonic thrust that would turn the county into a worthless desert. As Mitch talked, Webb knew he was telling the truth. The man was talking from sheer terror, and what he said about the railroad and about Hasker showed a knowledge he could have picked up only from Bannister. Every question Webb asked was answered.

Mitch was talking for his life. He told of how he first met Bannister, how he had spied on Tolleston, how he had transmitted the plans to Bannister, how he had seen the massacre, and how he knew then he was slated to die. All of it, his fear, these long days of panic, came out in pitiable sincerity, until Webb wanted to look away. He felt a shame for Mitch that made him want to shut the man's mouth and stop the crawling and pleading and cringing.

Mitch finished: “That's all I know. I've told you all. I'm guilty of everything you say but I ain't goin' back to San Patricio. I'm scared of Bannister, but I'm more scared of them. If you want to shoot, go ahead.”

Webb cuffed his Stetson back and looked meditatively at Mitch. “If I don't take you, what'll you do?”

“I don't know,” Mitch said miserably.

“Run back to Bannister and tell him you've tipped his hand for him?”

Mitch looked up quickly. “God, no!” he whispered. “He'd kill me before I'd finished! He'd do worse! He'd torture me. I don't know how, but I know he would.” The shudder that moved his body was real, genuine fear.

Webb weighed the truth of this. Mitch could gain nothing from Bannister by returning to him now—nothing except a horrible death. He was marked to die anyway, because he knew so much. That was inevitable. And if he returned to Bannister with the confession that he had told Bannister's plans, then Bannister's rage would be boundless. No, Mitch wasn't apt to return to Bannister.

And what about taking him to Tolleston? Webb could almost see the fury of that little man when he heard Mitch's story. And once it got around the county, there would be no trial. These men loved justice, but there was a limit to that love. They would yank Mitch out of the jail and lynch him. While he probably deserved it, Webb couldn't bring a man back to that. It would be on his conscience forever. And he couldn't stand here and level a gun and shoot him.

“I won't take you to Tolleston, Budrow,” Webb said slowly, watching Mitch. “I won't take you anywhere. Bannister's reward poster will take care of you. If you're smart, you'll light out of this country on a high lonesome and keep ridin' till you've ridden a
remuda
to death. And then ride after that. You may live a year, but I doubt it. Me, I hope you don't.”

He turned to his horse and rode off. Mitch did not even look up to watch him go. But he heard him, and the words Webb had spoken were graven in Mitch's memory.

Mitch was thinking clearer and straighter than he had ever thought in his life. If he returned to the Dollar with the news that he had given the plot away, he would be killed before he finished telling. If he returned and said nothing about meeting Webb, he would be killed anyway. If he rode out of this country, then he would be the prey of any man with a memory for faces. Weren't there already reward posters out? And wasn't Cousins right when he said that Bannister would raise the reward ante until it totaled a sum that would induce men to leave home and jobs to hunt him out? He couldn't stay in Wintering County. He couldn't hide in San Patricio. He couldn't ride away from both.