Ralph Compton Sixguns and Double Eagles (15 page)

“Takin' a hell of a lot more risk than you,” Mull snapped. “I'll be followin' their trail, just like we been doin‘, while the four of you will be shootin' from cover. Any of you that don't have enough sand for that, mount up and ride back the way you come.”

“That makes sense to me,” said Baker. “I'll stick.”

Doan, Wells, and Olson quickly agreed to the plan.

“Then mount up and ride,” Mull said. “I'll be on their back trail, if they try to run.”

 

A few miles ahead, Wes and El Lobo had reined up to rest their horses.

“They still be coming,” said El Lobo. “How many?”

“That's something we have to know,” Wes said. “Ride on ahead, while I have a look at our back trail.”

El Lobo rode out, heading west, while Empty prowled somewhere ahead. Mounting his horse, Wes rode south a ways and then east, so that he might view their back trail without being seen. Eventually he reached a high point where he could see a considerable ways along the south bank of the Arkansas. He was growing impatient, wondering if he'd made a wrong move, when he sighted a single rider. He waited, assuring himself no other riders followed. He then mounted his horse and rode back the way he had come. Reaching the place where he and El Lobo had parted company, he carefully continued the tracks of his horse alongside those of El Lobo's horse, so the pursuing rider would have an unbroken trail to follow. El Lobo had been watching his back trail, reining up when Wes approached.

“How many come?” El Lobo asked.

“Just one,” said Wes, “and that tells us plenty. We know we cut down six of them and wounded some others, but there has to be more than one of them after us. They rode into one ambush, and they won't do that again. As long as they're behind us, we have an edge.”

“Others get ahead of us,” El Lobo said. “Ambush us.”

“That's what I figure,” said Wes. “I figure the rest of ‘em are flanking us to the north and south, planning to come together somewhere ahead of us. But they can't ambush us if we take another direction. We can ride south, and when the varmint trailin' us figures it out, he'll still have to ride on ahead to tell the rest of his outfit.”

“Nevada don't be south,” said El Lobo.

“No,” Wes said. “Santa Fe is to the south, and we'll be takin' the long way to Carson City, but we have to lose this pack of hired killers. It'll buy us some time, while the Golden Dragon figures out what's become of us.”

Wes and El Lobo waited until they reached a portion of the riverbank that was thick with brush and stirrup-high grass. There they turned south, careful to conceal tracks of their horses.

“He'll find our tracks,” said Wes, “but it'll take him a while, and he'll still have a considerable ride ahead of him, catchin' up to the rest of his gunmen.”

 

“Damn them,” Mull said aloud when he emerged from the brush and thick grass that covered the riverbank. The trail he had been following no longer existed. He could see no horse tracks down the south bank, and none on the muddy north bank where the riders might have crossed, and that left but one choice. He rode south almost two miles before eventually finding the trail, and it continued due south.

“Damnation,” said Mull, kicking his horse into a gallop. He must ride at least fifty long miles to the west to rendezvous with his men, and the lot of them then faced a fifty-mile return ride before they could again take up the trail. Worse, they would again be following their prey, with another ambush a definite possibility. Mull swallowed hard, not relishing breaking the news to Doan, Wells, Baker, and Olson. An hour before sundown, Mull found them gathered around a fire, boiling coffee. Their response was even worse than Mull had expected.

“It'll be dark in another hour,” Doan said, “and I ain't ridin' nowhere without sleep and grub. If the rest of you are of a mind to go, then go without me.”

“That's the way I feel,” said Wells, “and when I've had some sleep and grub, I'm ridin' back to Denver. Hell, these
hombres
is headed for Santa Fe. There, I got a price on my head.”

“You'll likely have a price on your head in Colorado,” Mull said. “Elkins won't let you weasel out of a job after you been paid to do it.”

“He'll have to find me first,” said Baker. “I ain't wanted in New Mexico. First light, and I'm ridin' south. I ain't left nothin' in Colorado.”

“Me neither,” Olson said. “I'll ride with you.”

Doan laughed. “Mull, it looks like you got that twenty-thousand-dollar reward all to yourself.”

Mull went for his gun, but Doan had been expecting that. He was fast. Incredibly so, and Mull died with his hand on the butt of his Colt. The four stared at their fallen leader without remorse.

“I'm claimin' the gold he's got on him,” said Doan. “He ain't gonna be needin' it.”

“You can bunk here tonight and keep him company,” Baker said. “I ain't as tired as I thought I was. I'm ridin' south to Santa Fe.”

“Bueno,”
said Olson. “Let's ride. We ain't got a trail to follow.”

Doan watched them mount and ride south. Quickly he robbed Mull of his gold and his Colt. He saddled his horse and then Mull‘s, and leading the animal, rode north, toward Denver. After a moment, Wells mounted his horse and followed.

 

 

“We'll make camp here,” Wes said. “If that bunch takes up our trail again, they won't be able to follow us in the dark.”

“We still not know how many follow,” said El Lobo.

“Dead or wounded, I think we accounted for at least half of them, and as long as we're ahead of them, we have the advantage. Tomorrow I'll scout the back trail.”

Wes and El Lobo, unaware they were no longer followed, rode south at dawn. When they had been three hours on the trail, they could see a plume of dust to the northwest.

“Looks like they didn't double back and take our trail,” Wes said. “They've cut across country, if that's who I'm expecting.”

“Who else it be?” El Lobo asked. “We kill?”

“We can't be entirely sure they're after us,” said Wes, “since they aren't following our trail. Let's find some high ground and see how many riders are coming.”

Baker and Olson had ridden most of the night and had slowed their weary horses to a trot. The first slug kicked up dust, causing Olson's horse to rear. Both men piled out of their saddles, taking their Winchesters with them. There was little cover.

“Damn it,” Olson said, “we've stumbled onto them varmints we was chasing.”

“There's two of us and two of them,” said Baker. “Maybe this is our chance.”

“Yeah,” Olson said, “but we can't see them. We'd better get to our horses, if we can.”

“You aim to run for it?”

“Yeah,” said Baker. “At least, I aim to circle wide and try to get around ‘em. You've seen what they can do with them long guns.”

“I'll settle for gettin' around ‘em,” Olson said. “If we can't claim the reward, we can at least save our necks. Them varmints can shoot like hell wouldn't have it.”

Olson and Baker ran for their horses, and to their surprise there were no more shots from their attackers.

“Coyotes run,” said El Lobo. “Per‘ap they get ahead.”

“We'll just give them time to ride on, if that's what they have in mind,” Wes said. “I'll send Empty on ahead. If they're holed up waiting for us, he'll find them.”

But Olson and Baker, having made good their escape, continued riding south until they reached the headwaters of the Rio Grande. They rode on until they came to a sign that read: HAWKTOWN. YOU ARE NOT WELCOME HERE.

“Well, ain't that somethin‘?” said Baker. “Hell, they can't deny us a drink and maybe some town grub. Come on.”

Strung out along the river, the town wasn't impressive. The buildings were weathered, having fought a losing battle with the elements. There was a two-story hotel, a combined livery and blacksmith shop, half a dozen shacks that might have been private residences, and a saloon. The saloon was the most impressive, with a plate-glass front. To the right of the swinging doors, painted across the glass in fancy red letters was CASA DE ORO SALOON. To the left of the swinging doors, painted across the glass in black-and-gold script was THE LAW OFFICES OF JUDGE ELIAS HAWK. Half a dozen horses were tied at the hitch rail, and from somewhere down the dirt street came the clang of a blacksmith's hammer. Baker and Olson elbowed their way through the swinging doors. Six men sat around a table on which there were several bottles, an assortment of shot glasses, and a deck of cards. Standing near the bar was a tall man whose thumb was hooked in his gunbelt. On his vest there was a lawman's star. As Baker and Olson approached the bar, the bartender seemed not to see them.

“Couple of beers,” said Olson.

“Friend,” the lawmen said, “I take it you gents can't read, or maybe you didn't see our sign.”

“We seen your sign,” Baker said. “We ain't plannin' to settle here. We just stopped for a drink and maybe some grub. Then we'll be ridin' on.”

“Yeah,” said Olson, “we're dodgin' a pair of
hombres
that tried to kill us.”

“I'm Hobie Denbow, the sheriff here, and this is a peaceful town. The last thing we're wantin' is troublemakers like you. You're both under arrest for trespassing.”

“Like hell,” Olson snarled.

His hand froze on the butt of his Colt, for Denbow had him covered. Baker raised his hands, backing toward the door.

“Unbuckle those gunbelts and let them drop,” Denbow ordered. “Judge Hawk, we got court business.”

A door opened in the back of the room. Judge Hawk was a tall old man with silvery hair, whose fierce blue eyes looked from beneath shaggy white brows. He was dressed in black pinstripe trousers, a white boiled shirt, fancy red tie, and a black frock coat. He went behind the bar and pounded on it with the butt of a Colt.

“Court is now in session,” said Judge Hawk. “You men will face the bar and tell me your names.”

“Baker and Olson,” Baker said sullenly, “and you got nothin' on us.”

“You are charged with trespassing after having been warned,” said Hawk, “and I find you guilty as charged. I am sentencing each of you to a year at hard labor, and fining you two hundred dollars. Sheriff Denbow, march them to the mine, get them in irons, and put them to work. The court will seize their horses, saddles, and weapons, which should cover their fines and court costs. After you have disposed of them, Sheriff, ride north a ways and be sure they weren't pursued, as they claim.”

“No,” Baker shouted, “we ain't done nothin‘.”

But Denbow ignored their pleas, marching them out the door. The card game had continued uninterrupted, and Judge Hawk returned to his office behind the saloon. Shortly afterward, Sheriff Denbow rode north, reining up when he saw a wisp of dust rising somewhere ahead. Riding well away from the Rio Grande, he took cover on a ridge and waited for the oncoming riders to pass his position.

 

Reaching the headwaters of the Rio Grande, Wes and El Lobo came upon the trail left by Baker and Olson.

“I'll send Empty to scout ahead,” said Wes, “and we'll follow them a ways, just to be sure they've given up on us.”

They reined up when they reached the HAWKTOWN sign.

“Hombres
go there,” El Lobo said.

“I reckon we'll obey the sign and avoid the place,” said Wes. “Now we can ride west again.”

“Perro
far ahead,” El Lobo said.

“He'll change direction,” said Wes, “when he finds we're not following.”

But Empty did not return quickly enough to warn them.

“You're covered,” a cold voice said from behind them. “Rein up, or I'll drop you.”

Wes and El Lobo obeyed the order, turning their horses to face their challenger.

“We've done nothing, Sheriff,” Wes said. “We're passing through.”

“You just think you are,” said Sheriff Denbow. “You're under arrest for trespassing. Unbuckle your gunbelts and let them drop.”

Wes and El Lobo did as ordered, and Denbow slung the gunbelts over his arm, careful to keep them covered with his Winchester.

“Now dismount and lead your horses,” Denbow said. “You're going to walk the rest of the way. Judge Hawk is waiting for you.”

“Good,” said Wes grimly. “You're out of line.”

They reached the saloon, and Sheriff Denbow waited while Wes and El Lobo tied their horses. He then marched them into the saloon.

“Face the bar,” Denbow said.

Wes was nearest, and he threw himself into Denbow, seizing the wrist with the gun. El Lobo slammed a hard-driving right to Denbow's head, and he dragged Wes to the floor with him.

“That's enough!” a voice shouted. “You're covered.”

El Lobo raised his hands and Wes got to his feet. Judge Hawk had a double-barrel shotgun leveled at them, and three of the men at the poker table were on their feet, Colts in their hands. Sheriff Denbow struggled to his feet, rubbing his head. Taking his Colt off the floor, he backed away from the bar, holding the weapon on Wes and El Lobo. Judge Hawk, the shotgun under his arm, went behind the bar.

“Court is now in session,” said Hawk, rapping on the bar with the butt of his Colt. “You men will identify yourselves for this court.”

“I'm Wes Stone, and he's Palo Elfego,” Wes said, “and you have no right to bring us before your court.”