Outlaw Trackdown (2 page)

3

Deputy Wilkins jumped so high, it was a wonder he didn't hit the ceiling. Fargo almost laughed but then he got a good look at the man behind Wilkins and he sobered right quick.

Some lawmen didn't look the part. Wilkins, for one. Once Fargo met a sheriff who resembled a plump turkey. Another time, it was a pasty pastry roll who would have been content to sit in his office day in and day out, stuffing his face with sweets.

Marshal Luther Coltraine looked the part. He was tall, even taller than Fargo, and his shoulders were just as wide. He had a powerful chest any man would envy, and a face that looked as if it had been chiseled from granite. His eyes were a striking green. On his hip was a pearl-handled Smith & Wesson. His badge was pinned to a black leather vest that matched his black hat.

“Marshal!” Deputy Wilkins bleated.

“I asked you a question,” Coltraine said with as thick a Texas drawl as Fargo ever heard. “What were you fixin' to give the prisoner?”

Wilkins coughed and fidgeted and said barely loud enough to hear, “Whiskey.”

Coltraine's jaw muscles twitched. “What's my rule?”

“No liquor, ever,” Deputy Wilkins said, and went on in a rush, “But it's for medicinal purposes. He's got a lump on his head from that wallop you gave him.”

“And you figure to get him so drunk he won't feel the pain?”

“No, sir,” Wilkins said quickly. “I was only goin' to give him half a glass.”

“Not if you like your job, you're not. Don't ever let a prisoner talk you into doin' somethin' you shouldn't.” Marshal Coltraine strode to the cell and Wilkins couldn't skip aside fast enough. “What do you have to say for yourself, mister?”

“I want out,” Fargo said.

“I bet you do. But that's not goin' to happen until I say it is.”

“I'm a scout . . .” Fargo began.

“I figured as much, how you're dressed. So what?”

“So I just came from Fort Laramie and was minding my own business when those cow nurses jumped me.”

“That's not how they tell it, and the barkeep backs their story. Harvey says you were lookin' for trouble from the moment you walked in.”

“Harvey will have some trouble of his own once I'm out,” Fargo vowed a second time.

“Talk like that will keep you in here for a month of Sundays.”

“Damn it, Marshal . . .”

Coltraine held up a big hand. “Cussin' me won't help your cause any, either. You're too hotheaded for your own good.”

Fargo bit off a sharp retort. He might as well face the fact that unless he did as the lawman wanted, he'd be lucky to get out before Christmas.

“What's your handle?”

Fargo told him.

The marshal looked him up and down and said, “Heard of you. They say you're one of the best trackers alive.”

“I've had some practice,” Fargo said.

“I also hear tell you've had a lot of practice drinkin' and playin' cards and dallyin' with doves.”

Fargo was sure he caught the hint of a grin, which was encouraging. “I admit I am fond of dallying.”

Coltraine chuckled. “I've done a bit of it my own self.”

“You've done what now, Marshal?” Deputy Wilkins asked.

Coltraine glanced at him as if he'd forgotten he was there. “Go to the general store and buy us some coffee. We're plumb out.”

“Coffee? At this time of day? Usually you have it in the mornin'.”

“Our guest here will need some to clear his head.”

Deputy Wilkins scratched his. “I must have missed somethin'. When did he go from prisoner to guest?”

“When I say he did. Now scat.”

Thoroughly confused, the deputy and his freckles departed in a hurry. As he went out he said, “I'll be back in two shakes of a lamb's tail.”

Marshal Coltraine sighed. “He's next to worthless but he's the only one who applied for the job so I'm stuck with him.”

“If you don't mind my saying,” Fargo said, “this seems a strange place to find a man of your caliber.”

“What a nice thing to say,” Coltraine said, genuinely flattered. “They offered it to me and I took it. But you're right. Horse Creek ain't Texas. Most days it's so peaceful, you'd swear you can hear the dust blow down the street.”

“And you like it that way?” Fargo asked in mild surprise. Accounts had it that Coltraine was a real fire-breather who thrived on living on the razor's edge. The sort of hombre who would walk into danger without batting an eye.

Coltraine shrugged. “It's a living.” He turned and stepped to a peg on the wall and grabbed a large key ring with only one key. Inserting the key into the cell door, he twisted, and at the loud click, pulled the door wide. “Come out and have a seat.”

Fargo was glad to. He figured the lawman was about to let him go. “Do I owe the saloon anything for damages?”

“Nothin' was busted, so no. But there's a forty dollar fine for disturbin' the peace,” Coltraine said.

“The cowboys only had to pay ten.”

“Answer me true. Did you take the first swing or did they?”

Fargo didn't hesitate. “Me.”

“Then it's forty dollars and be thankful I don't want more.”

“Don't I go up before a judge first?”

“The judge is off fishin'. I'll collect it for him and you can leave inside the hour.”

“Why wait that long?” Fargo wanted to climb on the Ovaro and light a shuck.

Coltraine sat at his desk, opened a bottom drawer, and took out a half-empty bottle of whiskey. He set it in front of him and said, “Interested?”

“I thought you sent freckles for coffee?”

“That or this,” Coltraine said. “Your choice.”

“It's no choice at all,” Fargo said, and grinned.

Coltraine produced a glass and poured three fingers worth and skid it across. “This will clear your head a lot faster than coffee.”

“I'm obliged.” Fargo tossed it off and winced at a spike of pain. “How hard did you hit me, anyhow?”

“It was a good rap. A fella gets the knack for pistol-whippin' after he's worn a badge for a spell.” Coltraine didn't bother with the glass. He savored a long swig and let out a contented sigh. “Nothin' better for washin' down the dust.” He returned the bottle and the glass to the bottom drawer and closed the drawer.

“So I can go?”

“You're forgettin' the forty dollars.”

Fargo reached for his poke, and froze. It wasn't there. He groped his buckskins and exploded with an oath.

“Lookin' for this?” Coltraine reached under his vest.

Fargo hefted it. He would swear it was lighter than it had been when he paid for his bottle in the saloon. Undoing the tie string, he fished inside. He wasn't about to come right out and accuse the lawman of helping himself, but if he had to guess without looking, he'd say a double eagle and some other coins were missing.

As if he sensed what Fargo was thinking, Coltraine said, “That's what was in it when I took it off you.”

Fargo wondered if one of the cowboys could have palmed a few coins before the lawman carted him off. But if that was the case, why hadn't the puncher taken the whole poke?

“As soon as you pay you can be on your way,” Coltraine told him. “No goin' back to the saloon, though. No goin' anywhere except out of town.”

“Fine by me.”

“Don't take it personal. Those cowhands are still in town and seein' you might stir them up.” The lawman spread his big hands on the desk. “I like a quiet town, Fargo. As quiet as can be.”

Just then Horse Creek rocked to the blasts of gunfire.

4

“What the hell?” Marshal Luther Coltraine blurted as more gunshots boomed.

Fargo was already out of his chair. He was turning toward the door when he realized that, in the first place, it was the marshal's business, and in the second, he didn't have his Colt.

Somewhere a woman screamed.

Coltraine still sat there as if in shock.

“You might want to see what the ruckus is about,” Fargo said.

The lawman pushed to his feet and came around the desk. He was halfway to the front door when it burst open and in spilled Deputy Wilkins looking stricken and out of breath.

“Marshal! Marshal! The bank is bein' robbed. It's the Cotton brothers and those others!”

Coltraine stared out the door but didn't move until another scream galvanized him into drawing his Smith & Wesson and hurrying out. Wilkins dogged him like a puppy.

Fargo moved to the window.

Up and down the street, panic reigned. People scurried every which way. Two bodies lay sprawled in spreading pools of scarlet.

About a block and a half away stood the Horse Creek bank. Fargo had to crane his neck to see it. A frame wood building like all the rest, it had a hitch rail out front. Four horses were next to it but hadn't been tied off. On two other mounts were men with pistols, one facing up the street, one down it. Even as Fargo looked, the man facing his way pointed his six-shooter and fired at a store owner who had appeared holding a shotgun. The owner grabbed at his chest and toppled.

The two outlaws on horseback were holding the good citizens of Horse Creek at bay while their pards robbed the bank.

Marshal Coltraine raised his Smith & Wesson but the same outlaw spotted him and snapped a shot and Coltraine ducked behind a water barrel. Deputy Wilkins stuck to him like glue.

That was when the four outlaws who had gone into the bank rushed out again. Two carried burlap bags. A third had a rifle and he began spraying lead at anything that moved.

The last was the youngest. He had a six-gun in one hand and was pulling a woman after him. She fought, trying to break free, but couldn't stop him from hauling her to a horse. He barked something at the man with the rifle and together they seized her and flung her up.

“Amanda!” Deputy Wilkins cried. He started to stand but Marshal Coltraine yanked him down just as the outlaw facing that end of the street snapped a shot at them.

A townsman charged out of a house and commenced to fire a rifle like a madman. He got off four or five shots before the outlaw shot him in the head.

The rest scrambled to mount. A horse spooked by the din kept shying. The outlaw trying to climb on got hold of the saddle horn but couldn't swing up.

The young one shouted at him, and gestured, and the young one and the other five took off up the street.

In sudden desperation the last outlaw managed to clamber on and reined after them.

Marshal Coltraine stepped into the open and took deliberate aim. He had a clear shot but he didn't shoot. Instead, Coltraine scowled and jerked his revolver down.

To the thunder of hooves, the outlaws fled.

Only when the hoofbeats faded and silence fell did Horse Creek stir. People came out of buildings and from behind corners and gazed about in disbelief. A woman broke into tears.

Fargo went outside. The lawman hadn't moved and the deputy was fidgeting like a hound dog eager to take up the scene.

“Marshal?” Wilkins said. “Marshal?”

Coltraine shoved the Smith & Wesson into his holster and moved toward the bank.

An elderly woman hurried to the body of an elderly man and sank to her knees and let out a wail.

Fargo drifted down the street with a lot of others. Many were in a daze. One man kept saying over and over, “Did you see that? Did you see that?”

Marshal Coltraine was almost to the bank when a portly man in a suit stumbled out. He was bald and his pate glistened red from a gash above his ear. He had a hand to the wound and clutched at the empty air with the other as if for support. Coltraine caught him before he could fall.

“It was the Cotton Gang,” someone exclaimed.

“They rode in as brazen as anything,” said someone else.

“That Hoby Cotton,” said yet another, “taking Amanda Brenner with them like he done.”

“We'll hang him,” declared a fourth. “Him and that whole wild bunch, and good riddance.”

The portly man had gripped Coltraine's shirt. “They took her! They took my daughter!”

“I saw, Mr. Brenner,” Coltraine said.

“What are you waiting for? Go after them. They can't have gotten far. You have to save her. Do you hear me? Save her!” That last was a near-hysterical appeal that ended with a gasp as the portly man passed out.

A townsman carrying a black medical bag ran up.

The marshal and his deputy entered the bank and not half a minute later Wilkins reappeared supporting a middle-aged woman so shaken, she couldn't walk unaided. He steered her toward the marshal's office. As they went past Fargo, Deputy Wilkins glanced at him and sadly shook his head.

Fargo spied the cowboys he had clashed with over in front of the saloon. They paid him no mind. A couple of the punchers had unlimbered their six-shooters during the fracas but hadn't used them.

Marshal Coltraine came out of the bank looking mad enough to kill. “They shot the teller, Ed Zeigler,” he said to the doctor, who was tending to Brenner.

“I'll see to him next,” the sawbones said.

“No need,” Coltraine said. “His brains are splattered all over the teller's cage.” He paused. “How bad is Mr. Brenner?”

“He was struck over the head,” the doctor said. “Beyond that, I won't know until I get him to my office and examine him.”

Coltraine moved from body to body, making sure they were beyond help, then strode over to Fargo. “Come with me.”

“So much for peace and quiet,” Fargo said, falling into step beside him.

“If that was a joke it was in poor taste.”

“I'd like to pay the forty dollars and be on my way.”

“Was that another joke?”

“You're fixing to rustle up a posse and go after them,” Fargo figured. “I don't want to be stuck here until you get back.”

“You won't be,” Coltraine said. They reached the office and he stopped and stared up the street in the direction the outlaws had gone. “When I go after them, you're comin' with me.”