One-Man Massacre (18 page)

NINETEEN

F
or the
first hour after she had given in to pure ex
haustion, Rosemarie slumbered peacefully. But then
her sleep became fretful, she tossed and turned on the
blanket, cried out several times. All at once she came
awake and sat up, looked around at her strange surround
ings in disbelief.

"Who are you?" she asked the old man across the
clearing.

"Fargo Johns, young lady. And you might as well
catch some more sleep. Buchanan's long gone."

It had come back to her as he spoke and now she got
to her feet.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Back down the mountain."

"It'll be dark before you get a third of the way. Better
you spend the night here, do your travelin' in the day-
light."

"And not know how Tom made out? I'm afraid I'd
go out of my mind, Mr. Johns."

"You're liable to get done out of your life," Fargo
said. "Why there's a cat just below this ridge that's over
three feet
..."

"Please
—I don't want to hear about it."

"You'll make a great pair."

"What?"

"You and Buchanan, if you ever catch up with him
again."

"Catch up? What do you mean?"

"He's quit the mountain for good. Whatever the
trouble is down there, when it's settled he's lightin' out"

"Is that what he said?"

"Yep. Gonna stand me a drink in Frisco."
The girl considered that, made no comment.

"Well, I'm off, mister," she said. "Good-by."

"Sure wish you'd wait till morning. Seems foolhardy
to go down now."

"I feel I've got to."

"Good luck to you, then."
She waved to him and started down.

When Billy Neale rode out of Mulchay's yard toward
Overlord he had the curious feeling he should be going in the opposite direction. There was something very
peculiar about Gibbons' behavior, and he was almost certain he had intercepted a signal between the captain
and the gunman who rode with him.

"Is that a horse up ahead?" Malcolm Lord asked,
breaking into his thoughts. Neale looked up the trail, and sure enough it was somebody's mount
—saddled, bridled
and riderless. They came up to it, a chestnut mare that
eyed them placidly, and Neale inspected her.

"Well, I'll be damned
—it's got MacKay's brand!" .

"What's it doing this far from home?" Lord asked.

"I don't like it, Mr. Lord. Suppose Rosemarie Mac
Kay was riding her?"

"What would she be riding around here for?"

"Nothing to stop her," Neale said. "Except if she got
caught in that raid at Mulchay's . . ."

"Good grief! Then the Mex took her with them."

"If there were any."

"What's that?" Lord asked sharply.

"That raid don't sit right, somehow. That fella comes charging up to headquarters with news Mulchay is being
hit. We get close and the fire breaks out."

"Well? That's how the Mex raid, isn't it?"

"So they say. But the Ranger they strung up wasn't
killed tonight. He was stiffened out, Mr. Lord. I'd say it
happened to him way early in the day."

"That's very possible. They might have come across
him anywhere along the river."

"Then why go to all that trouble making it look like
it just happened before we rode up?"

"What are you trying to say, Neale? Are you accusing
someone?"

"I'm doubling back, boss," Neale said, avoiding a di
rect answer. "I'm going to look for Rosemarie."

"If the girl is anywhere around, the militia will find
her."

"I'm worried about that happening, too."

"Now one damn minute! You know, don't you, that
I brought Gibbons and his men into the Big Bend? That
I'm responsible for them, and they to me?"

"Mr. Lord, the day Gibbons set foot in this country
was the worst thing ever happened to it."

"Watch yourself, Neale
—that's insolence!"

"That's truth," Neale replied doggedly. "The man is
no good, and that so-called militia is nothing but a hard-
case crew. Just so many hired gunnies . . ."

"Draw what's coming to you at the ranch," Lord told
him. "You're setting your judgment against mine, and
that I can't abide in a hired hand."

Neale shrugged, swept up the mare's dragging
r
eins
and took her with him back down the trail toward Mul
chay's. The house was just a black, wall-less shell of itself
now and he forced himself to make a thorough search of
the ruins. There was, of course, no sign of Rosemarie,
but he did find a litter of .45 shell casings
—a prodigious
waste for the ammo-hungry Mexicans along this part of
the border—plus a great many cigarette butts in an iron
can. Billy had grown up with Mex kids, knew them well,
and there was something un-Mexican about this whole
deal.

Then, on what had been the porch, he discovered a
knife that someone had lost in the shuffle. There was no
denying the Spanish look to it, the fancy handle and
stiletto-thin blade. He was about to concede the fact of
an actual raid when his eyes made out the crude inscription along the shaft. Brownsville, it read,
1856.

That was last year, and last year Black Jack Gibbons
was murdering Mexicans in Brownsville. The cowboy wondered if this knife had been taken as loot, kept as a memento.

But even if evidence was growing in his mind that the
raid had been staged, Neale was still concerned primarily
with the whereabouts of Rosemarie. He decided that the
next place to look would be at her own ranch, and he
started off along the river trail at a gallop, hoping in his
heart that the girl would be there, safe and sound.

As he neared the place he saw the light of a small
campfire, noted that the house itself was dark. He dis
mounted, led both horses closer. Three men sat around
the fire eating, three of Gibbons' Militia, and as he
watched, one of them stood up and looked in this direc
tion, as if expecting another arrival. It worried Neale that
someone might be coming from his rear, and at that
moment a hand touched his shoulder.

"Aren't you Billy Neale, from Overlord?"

"Christ, Mr. MacKay!" he protested, recognizing
Rosemarie
's uncle. "I liked to have jumped out of my skin."

"Didn't mean to start you, boy."

"Where's Rosemarie?"

"Damned if I know. The girl rode off this afternoon."

"To Mulchay's?"

"No, towards the mountain. Said something about
climbing up there for a man."

"Buchanan," Neale said softly.

"Who?"

"A mutual friend," the cowboy said dryly.

"She said Mulchay was being held by that Gibbons
fellow. Claimed he was going to be killed . . ."

"So that's the story!" Neale said excitedly, his suspi
cions confirmed. "And I'll bet it was Buchanan who left
the mare there."

"I thought I recognized that horse," Lauren MacKay
said. "Say, how does a man go about keeping trespassers
off his land these days?"

"The law don't mean much," Neale admitted. "Gib
bons does just as he pleases
—"

"And right now," a hard voice said, "he's telling both
of you to stand fast. I don't need much excuse tonight
to kill the pair of you."

"Do as he says, Mr. MacKay," Neale advised him
gloomily.

"Cato! Harley!" Gibbons shouted toward the house.
"Get down here on the double!"

"Those the ones fighting all the bandits around here?"
Neale asked.

"You'll be smart to keep your mouth shut, cowboy."

"Things ain't going off as planned, are they, Gibbons?"

Gibbons swung the gun
barrel viciously, caught Neale
behind the ear with it and dropped him unconscious in
the dirt.

"How about you?" he asked MacKay ominously. "Any
bright remarks?"

"Not me."

Cato and Harley came up and Gibbons turned on
them.

"What in the name of God happened back there?
How did Riker get shot?"

"Some buck rode up out of nowheres," Harley said.
"Just opened up on Riker like that . . ."

"A Mex?"

"Hell, no, he wasn't a Mex."

"What happened to you?" Gibbons asked Cato then,
staring at the man's swollen, misshapen face.

"Nothin' I won't fix if I run into him again."

"Was he on the big side?"

"Big enough," Cato answered. "You know him?"

"I think so," Gibbons said. "He took the old man with
him?"

"In a buckboard," Harley said. "That's when Betters
got winged."

"We'd better get going into town," Gibbons said.
"Take these two out back of the house."

"Another fire, too?" Cato asked him.

"Yeah, but do it fast
—" Gibbons stopped speaking,
turned his head down the trail. "Did you hear some
thing?"

"A horse," Cato said. "In a big hurry."

"Get back out of sight," Gibbons said, slipping his
rifle from the boot.

"I hope it's who I think it is," Cato said.

"You," Gibbons said to MacKay. "Stand in the middle
of the trail. Wave the rider down."

The hoofbeats grew louder, but there was nothing vis
ible in the blackness down there. MacKay edged out into
the center of the roadway, stood with his hands above
his head. Then the horse and rider could be seen.

"Wave him down!" Gibbons snapped and the old man
moved his arms frantically.

"Go back!" he began shouting unexpectedly. "Go back
and get help!" But the horse was being brought up short
and it was too late to turn back. Gibbons broke from the
shadows and jerked the reins from the rider's hands.

"This is as far as you go," he told Rosemarie. "From
now on well travel together." He swung to Cato. "Get
everybody mounted. We're going to Scotstown."

"I thought you wanted . . ."

"The situation is changed," he said curtly. "Let's
move!"

TWENTY

A
messenger
sent out by Lou Kersh met Gibbons on
the outskirts of Scotstown and
f
illed him
in
quickly
on the situation.

"One man?" Gibbons asked with angry derision. "You
can't root out one man and finish him?"

"He's holed up now in the sheriff's office. Just sitting
behind the desk and picking off anybody that shows his
head."

"And what the hell is Kersh doing?"

"Lou says for you to come in and figure something
out."

"I will!" Gibbons promised and put spurs to his horse.
The oddly assorted party rode into Trail Street noisily,
and when it passed the office Buchanan had a swift and
disquieting glimpse of the girl riding under guard. He
moved out from behind the desk for a better look at
this totally, unforeseen development, came to stand in the
doorway for a moment before three snap shots drove
him back inside.

The party dismounted at the Edinburgh Hotel and
Rosemarie was taken inside alone by Gibbons and Cato.
Gibbons came out of the hotel minutes later, strode
briskly and self-confidently across the street to the Glas
gow. Hostility toward him in that place fairly crackled
with its intensity, but the man glanced from one dark
face to another with contempt for all of them in his
eyes.

"Where's Angus Mulchay?" he said directly to Hamlin.

"Your business is done with Mulchay," Hamlin said.
"He lies murdered in the next room."

"So the bandits killed him, did they?"

"Ay," Hamlin said. "Bandits is as good a name for your
gang as any other I've heard."

Gibbons had been pouring himself a drink at the bar.
He sipped it now and gazed at Hamlin thoughtfully.

"Talk like that could cost you your life," he said.

"As it cost Mulchay his."

"And there may be many more before this night is done," Gibbons said.

"What are you doing with the lass, Gibbons?" Ter
hune demanded. "Surely you draw the line somewhere."