Rebel Yell (17 page)

“We're not afraid of a little hard work.”

“That ain't how I heard it.”

Leo Plattner had been on a slow burn. He was a man with a low boiling point and he was fuming. His eyes blazed, nostrils flaring. He breathed hard like he was running a race. He did everything but paw the ground with his feet.

Barton resumed working on him. “Been quite a day here for the Parker County set, Leo. You and the boys must be in mourning for Terry Moran and friends.”

“We don't like it,” Plattner said through clenched teeth.

“Tell me about it. I'm the official Hangtree Jail Complaints Department.”

“What kind of law you running in this two-bit cow patty of a town, Barton? Here you are picking on us for trying to make an honest dollar while you let Terry Moran's killers run around free as air!”

“Moran and his two guardsmen got beat in a fair draw. A fair draw, Leo! Johnny Cross burned them down one-two-three, that's what I heard. Must've been some show,” Barton said, wistful. “Wish I'd seen it!”

“What about the Randle brothers?” Plattner demanded. He took a step forward, big fists clenching and unclenching. “Butchered in an eatery for trying to eat their lunch!”

“That ain't exactly the way it went down, Leo. They put the café under the gun to do a little bushwhacking, but it blew up in their faces. Poetic justice, I'd say.”

“Bah! This ain't no town, it's a slaughterhouse!”

“Some say yes and some say absolutely. You all might want to keep it in mind while you're in Hangtree.”

“We ain't forgetting,” Leo said ominously.

“Good,” Barton said. “Seeing as you're so broken up about the passing of the Moran gang, maybe you want to take up a collection to pay for the funeral. Them being part of the old hometown crowd and all.”

“That ain't the funeral I'd like to buy!”

“No? Whose funeral might that be, I wonder.”

“
Guess
,” Leo said with heavy breathing and teeth-gnashing menace.

Denton Dick intervened once more. “Leo.”

“Back off, Dick, I've stood as much guff as I can stand off this lawdog!”

“Leo,” Denton Dick repeated.

“Let it go, let it go,” Barton said, chuckling with false good humor. “By the way, Leo, don't worry about the funeral. We'll give the boys a real nice send-off—one-way to Boot Hill.”

“You're prodding me, Marshal, and I don't like that!”

“Well, you let me know when you've had enough,” Barton said, his smile widening.

“I've had me a bellyful now!” Leo cried as he lunged for Barton, hands coming up, reaching for the lawman's throat.

There was only one way to deal with hardcases, Barton knew. Stop them before they get started—and stop them
hard
. In one smooth continuous movement he sidestepped Leo's lunge, drew his gun, and clubbed the back of Leo's skull with the long heavy barrel. A sound like a woodchopper's axe taking the first bite out of a tree trunk was heard by all.

Leo dropped to his knees, stunned. He clawed reflexively at his holstered gun.

Barton pistol-whipped him again, harder.

Leo fell forward, facedown.

Barton leveled his gun on the Hughes bunch.

It all happened in a couple heartbeats.

The crowd of spectators arrowed away from the scene like a flock of spooked starlings, vanishing within seconds.

Deputy Smalls was ready and waiting for the fracas. When Leo charged, he shouldered the big double-barreled shotgun, pointing it at Denton Dick and the center of the knot of bad men.

Some of the Hughes bunch started reaching—mostly those on the flanks of the shotgun's line of fire. But they were late to the party, uncertain.

“Stand down, you fools!” Denton Dick's shout rang out loud and clear, spurred no doubt by the prospect of being the prime target of Smalls's ready shotgun.

“I'll kill the first man whose gun clears the holster,” Barton said.

“You know what I'll do,” Smalls said.

“
Stand down
!” Denton Dick repeated, louder and with more urgency. “What kind of dumb clucks have I got working for me? Anybody pulls a gun and if I get out of this, I promise I'll kill him myself!”

“I'm with you, Marshal,” said the voice of Scout Hurley standing with his hand on his gun butt somewhere behind Barton

“Me, too,” Wagon master Brooks said gruffly, also at the ready.

“That's fine,” Barton said, not looking away from the Hughes bunch. “I'd be obliged if you'd keep your folks from cutting in; we're hanging by a mighty fine wire now and I'd hate for it to break.”

“Will do, Marshal,” Brooks said, moving between Cal Lane, the Burgesses, and the Hughes bunch. “Don't shuck those guns from the holsters, men, lest you start a free-for-all that nobody can win.”

Stan and Pete Burgess eased off a bit, but not Cal Lane, who all but trembled with the urge to slap leather.

“Don't do it, son,” the wagon master said. “You don't want Miz Alberta to maybe get hurt.”

Cal shuddered, dropping his hand away from his gun.

“Get those hands away from your guns,” Denton Dick urged his men.

After a timeless few minutes, the moment of truth passed. The Hughes bunch lacked the stomach for a blazing gunfight. By slow degrees, the bad men straightened up, exhaling held breaths with a sigh, carefully moving hands away from six-guns.

All but Leo Plattner. The irrepressible strength of the man kept him going, forcing him to hands and knees. Glazed eyes peering out of the tops of his eyes, he moved a hand toward his holstered gun.

Barton stepped forward, kicking Plattner in the chin. “Leo, you dumb son of a—!”

Plattner flopped facedown, out like a light. A couple bad men standing nearby involuntarily winced from the force of the kick. Plattner lay with his hands at the sides of his head.

Barton had to fight to repress a powerful urge to stomp and break Leo's gun hand with his boot heel. “Well . . . maybe next time.”

“We'll be done here in a minute. In the meantime, be good and you've got nothing to worry about.”

“I'll hold on the mark as long as you want, Mack!” Smalls said, still covering the Hughes bunch in general and Denton Dick in particular.

“We understand each other better now,” Barton said to the bunch. “Y'all are guests in Hangtree, mind. Any more trouble from you and I'll be down here fast with a posse to clean up on you. If I do, won't be many of you going home to Parker County, I promise you that. Savvy?” he demanded harshly.

“We savvy, Marshal,” Denton Dick said, not much liking it but liking the alternative a whole lot less.

“Good. See that you do.” Barton turned to Brooks. “Get your people out of here, wagon master, and we'll be moving along to your camp.”

“Right, Marshal,” Brooks said, gallantly offering his steady arm as a support to Miz Alberta, who fastened a claw-like hand on it. He began escorting her away from the scene.

Over his shoulder, he called to Cal Lane and the Burgesses. “Come on, you three. Get out of here while the getting's good. It'll never be better,” he said under his breath.

“Eh? What's that you say, wagon master?” Miz Alberta asked.

“Nothing, ma'am. Nothing.”

“Go on, Brooks. Get them out of here,” Scout Hurley said. “I'll lay behind for a bit.”

“Okay.” Brooks hurried his charges off, hampered by having to move at the pace of the slowest, Miz Alberta. But she was spry and stepped along quite lightly.

Scout Hurley moved closer to Barton and Smalls, neither of whom had lowered their weapons leveled on the Hughes bunch. The scout's hand was empty but rested on his holstered gun. He didn't pull it to avoid ratcheting up the tension. “They're clear, Marshal,” he said when Brooks and the others were out of the line of fire.

“Good. We're going now.” Barton started to back away.

“Good riddance,” Denton Dick said sourly.

“And a good night to you, Dick,” the marshal said. “And to Leo, too, when he wakes up.”

“I expect he'll have something he wants to say to you personally.”

“I'll be waiting.”

Barton, Smalls, and Hurley edged sideways away from the bunch in crabwise style caused by the need to watch the gunmen and retreat from their camp.

“Careful with that twelve-gauge, Deputy. It's got a hair trigger,” Barton said, joshing, but meaning it, too. He wanted the bunch to hear it as a reminder not to cut up capers.

“G'wan, git!” a voice ragged from the enemy camp.

Barton laughed. It's what the Hughes bunch heard once he and the others had moved out of the circle of firelight and out of sight into the darkness.

They made no move to pursue.

The withdrawal had been accomplished.

“Much obliged, Hurley.”

“Nothing to it, Marshal.”

“All the same, thanks.”

Hurley nodded. “You're welcome.”

“You, too, Deputy.”

“All in a day's work, Marshal.”

“Yeah,” Barton said, chuckling. “That's the trouble. And the day's far from over, even though it's night.”

They were inside the campfire-lit circle of Brooks wagons. The wagon master had posted plenty of sentries and guards and most of the male emigrants went about armed. Barton noted the precautions with approval.

“That's sure a heap of no-goods,” Hurley pointed out needlessly. “Wonder what they're doin' here.”

“I wonder,” Barton said. “Nobody would buy that cock-and-bull story about them going down to Midvale to salvage scrap lumber.”

“The very idea!” Smalls said, indignant at the affront to common sense. “They's robbers and killers in the first place because they's too shiftless and mean to do a lick of work.”

Cal Lane and Pete and Stan Burgess came crowding in.

“What's next, Marshal?” Cal demanded grimly.

“Not much,” Barton said. “I want to talk to the girl. Best leave your brother's body where it is until daybreak when I can arrange a way to pick it up.”

“Leave Bob uncovered all night where the animals can get at him? That's awful raw,” Pete protested.

“The real animals are inside the Hughes camp, not outside,” Barton said. “Four-legged scavengers won't go near that camp tonight. They'll leave the body alone.”

“Still, that's awful raw,” Pete repeated.

“It's worth your life and anybody else's who goes to that camp tonight. Stay away until I say different,” Barton said harshly. “That's an order. Break it and you won't get arrested, you'll be lying there beside Bob Lane.”

“Hard words,” Stan said.

“That's how it's got to be,” the marshal concluded.

“What about Randy?” Cal Lane demanded.

“What about him?” Barton asked.

“Ain't you going after him?”

“I wish I could, but I can't leave the town without a lawman—especially now.”

“What about your deputy? Can't he lead a posse?”

“I need him,” Barton said. “Sorry, Lane. I know it's cold comfort, but that's the best I can do for you tonight. Come daybreak it'll be a different story. For now, I've got to stay put and I recommend you do the same. In case you and your kinfolk ain't noticed, we're all in a pretty tight spot here. You, me, your outfit, all the decent folks on the campgrounds, and the town itself.”

“So you ain't gonna do nothing to catch the killer,” Cal Lane said, mouth full of bitterness.

“See me at dawn. I'll be at the jailhouse. Things'll move then,” Barton said.

“It'll be too late by then, the killer'll be clear out of the territory,” Cal said, vexed, worked up.

“Could be,” Barton admitted.

“If you won't go after him, I will!”

“I had a feeling that's what you'd do. I ain't saying I wouldn't do the same if I was in your shoes,” the marshal said. “If you want to wait till the deputy and me go back to town, I'll make the rounds with you, see if we can scare up a posse. A lot of the boys don't rightly care for those who go messing with the womenfolk, with decent young gals.”

“I've had all the stall I can take,” Cal said. “I'm done waiting. I'll do what needs to be done myself.”

“I'm with you, Cal,” Pete said emotionally.

“Me, too!” Stan offered.

They started off.

“Hold it!” the marshal barked, stopping them in their tracks. He had the voice for it when he wanted to use it. “A word of advice before you go, Lane.”

“I ain't asked for none,” Cal said.

“It might save your life and your cousins', too.”

“Might not hurt to listen, Cal,” Stan said, frowning, upset.

Pete shrugged.

“Make it short, then,” Cal said. “I'm in an almighty hurry!”

“Any trail-wise owlhoot's gonna be looking for someone to come dogging his trail,” Barton began. “If it's Randy Breeze, he'll sure 'nuff be looking. Look out for spots where he might be laying up to bushwhack you, is what I'm saying.”

“I'll keep it in mind, Marshal,” Cal said shortly.

“See that you do. Might keep you alive.”

“Thanks! Thanks for nothing,” Cal spat, stalking off, Pete following. Stan acknowledged Barton with a tight nod, then hurried off to catch up with the other two.

“Kid's got sand,” Hurley said after a moment.