West Of Dodge (Ss) (1996) (24 page)

Dave's gun slid from his fingers to the floor and blood trickled down his arm. He looked around, his face stunned and unrealizing, looking as if awakened from a sound sleep.

Jim Thorne did not fire. He stood wide-legged in the door and said quietly, "Better for you boys. Now set tight." He did not shift his eyes, but he spoke quietly. "Angela, get up and come over here. Don't get between me an' them. I ain't aimin' to kill nobody if I can help it."

Angela got shakily to her feet, and nobody else moved. Ben was staring at Jim. "If it wasn't for that shotgun--!" His voice sounded hoarse.

She walked around Ben, fearing he might try to grab her, but he did not. She moved to her husband's side, and Jim said quietly, "Just open the door, Angela, and get out-- fast."

The Roper four-shot was out in the open now, and Jim Thorne had both hands on it. "You're through around here," he said. "You'd better scatter and run. There'll be a hangin' posse after you."

"There's time," Ben Otten said thickly. "We'll catch up to you. You hadn't no time to go to Whitewater."

" 'Bout an hour after I left Dry Creek," Jim Thorne replied, "the stage bound for Whitewater came through. I left a note on the stable door. By now there's fifty men headed for here. You ain't goin' to get away, but you can try."

Angela opened the door, the lamp guttered again, and Jim sprang back, jerking the door to and then leaping to catch Angela's hand. Quickly, he sprang around the corner of the house and ran for the woods. Stopping at the corral gate he threw it open, and waving his arms he chased the animals through the gate while trying to keep an eye on the cabin.

Below them a door banged and there was a shout, then running feet. In the stable door a light flared. Whipping his shotgun up, Thorne dropped three quick, scanning shots at the area of the light. The match went out and there was darkness and silence.

Jim Thorne led the way up to the bench where he had left the dun. Riding double and leading the spare horse, they turned up the slope toward the saddle between the peaks. Angela spoke softly in his ear. "Will they follow?"

"No." He took his poncho from the bedroll and put it around her shoulders. "Unless they can catch up those horses."

"Then they'll be caught?"

"Most likely."

They rode in silence for several minutes. Somewhere off over the hills they heard the sudden clatter of the hooves of many horses. There was a long silence then, and after the silence, a shot, then a rattle of shots . . . silence . . . then a single shot.

The water in the canyon was much lower. Hours later, they reached the flat again. Angela leaned against him, exhausted. "You want to ride into Whitewater?" he said. "You can catch a stage there."

"I want to go home, Jim."

"All right," he said.

In the gray cold light of a rain-filled dawn, they rode across a prairie freckled with somber pools. He reached a hand down to hold her hand where it rested at his waist, and they rode like that, across the prairie and past the blackened ruins of the stage station, and up to the mountain and into the pines.

*

Stage to Willowspring
.

He was a medium-tall man with nice hands and feet, and when he got down from the stage he stood away from the others and lit a small Spanish cigarro. Under the brim of the gray hat his features were an even sun-brown, his eyes gray and quiet.

Under a nondescript vest he wore a gray wool shirt, and a dark red bandanna that was worn to exquisite softness. His boots had been freshly heeled, and when he walked it was with the easy step of a woodsman rather than that of a rider. His gun was thrust into a slim, old-fashioned holster almost out of sight behind the edge of his vest.

Koons saw him there when he came out to the stage, and he took a second look, frowning a little. There was a sense of the familiar about the man, although he was sure he had never seen him before.

Avery was standing alongside the stage watching them load the box. Koons was pleased to see Avery. They were carrying a small shipment of gold and he liked to have a steady man riding shotgun.

There were five passengers to ride inside and a sixth riding the top. Everybody along the run knew Peg Fulton. She was sixteen when her parents died and she married a no-account gambler who soon ran off and left her. She had gone to a judge for a divorce, an action much frowned upon. She had since been treated as a fallen woman, although there was no evidence to prove it. Koons regretted his part in what had happened to Peg. He had believed he was too old to marry her but the gambler, who was also his age, had not hesitated. Peg's father had been a dry farmer named Gillis, and she came of good stock.

Bell was a fat, solid little man who had been riding the stages for eight years, a drummer for an arms outfit. Gagnon had a couple of rich claims in Nevada and carried himself with the superior feeling of one who is a success-- without realizing his good fortune was compounded of ninety percent luck. The man riding the top was a stranger, an unwashed man with weak eyes and a few sparse hairs trying to become a beard. He carried a Spencer .56 and wore a Navy Colt.

The last passenger came from the stage station, and Koons looked again, surprised at her beauty. She had dark, thick hair and the soft skin of a girl of good family and easy living. Her traveling dress was neat and expensive and she had a way of gathering her skirt when about to get into the stage that told Koons she was a lady.

Bell moved over to Koons. "See the fellow in the gray hat?"

"Who is he?"

"That's Scott Roundy, the Ranger who went into Mexico after Chato."

"Him?" Koons looked again. Curiosity impelled Armodel Chase to pause on the iron step of the stage, listen- ing. "Of course he's not a Ranger any more, but they say he's killed ten men. Wonder if he knows about Todd Boysee?"

"Likely. Wonder what he's doin' up here? Seems mighty far off his range."

"Boysee will ask him."

Gagnon had been listening, and he said, "He doesn't look so tough to me."

Bell glanced at him irritably. "That's what Chato thought. That Mex killed nine, ten men in gunfights, murdered a dozen more. Roundy followed him to Hermosillo and shot him to death in a cantina."

"I heard the Rurales don't like that sort of thing."

"Huh!" Bell said. "They were so glad to get rid of Chato they looked the other way."

Armodel gathered a skirt again, and suddenly beside her there was a low question--"May I?"--and a hand to help her. She accepted it naturally, without coy hesitation, then glanced at the man. It was Scott Roundy.

He got into the stage and sat opposite her beside Peg * Fulton. A whip cracked, the stage jolted, then lunged and they were off, and the dust began to rise behind them. The weather was comfortable, even slightly warm in the direct sun, but after a few minutes the shade had a frosty bite to it that indicated winter was waiting just beyond the horizon. This was a country of rolling hills, sparse grass, and pinon-crested ridges. In the shallow valleys there were scattered oaks.

Peg Fulton's head nodded and after awhile fell to Roundy's shoulder. Awakening with a start, she apologized and he said quietly, "Thaf s all right, ma'am. I don't mind."

Armodel looked at him thoughtfully but said nothing. She saw his eyes stray to her several times, and then she dozed a little. It seemed hours later when she awakened to find the stage had come to a stop. Dust climbed into the coach and settled upon their clothes. Koons came to the door. "Might get down a few minutes. One of the mules is a mite sick. Thought I'd let him rest up a little."

Avery walked to a point where he could see over the edge of the arroyo, and with a glance toward him, Roundy moved over to Armodel. "Would you like to have a seat, ma'am? There's a flat rock under the oak."

After she seated herself she saw Peg Fulton looking around helplessly, and she said quickly, "Won't you sit here with me? There's room enough."

Peg thanked her and sat down. Gagnon's eyes flashed irritably and he muttered something to Bell, who ignored it. The passenger with the Spencer had squatted on his heels with his back to the rear wheel of the coach and was smoking.

"Are you traveling far, Mr. Roundy?" The blue-green eyes met his. "I am Armodel Chase, and I am going to Willowspring."

"Not far ... I am stopping there also. If I can be of service, please call on me."

Gagnon spoke abruptly. "Ma'am, being new to the West I am afraid you do not know the character of the young woman beside you. I believe I should--"

"And I believe you shouldn't!" The blue-green eyes were dark and cool. ."Miss Fulton and I are comfortable here, and I do not believe that a woman's marital misfortune is any reason to withhold one's friendship or civility." Peg bit her lower lip and averted her eyes, but her hand sought out Armodel's and for a moment gave it a tight squeeze.

She caught the faint smile on Scott Roundy's face as Gagnon turned away, his back stiff with offended righteousness.

Later, back on the stage, Armodel studied Roundy when he was not lookmg. His was a quiet, thoughtful face, his smile almost shy. It was preposterous that this man could have killed ten men.

Gagnon broke the silence, speaking abruptly to Roundy. "What you figure to do when Boysee braces you?"

"Excuse me, I don't know what you are talking about."

Armodel felt the chill in the Ranger's voice, saw the flicker of irritation there.

"Aw, you heard of Todd Boysee! He's marshal of Willowspring. Killed seventeen or eighteen men. They say he's hell on wheels with a six-gun. He killed Lew Cole."

"Cole's been asking for it for years."

"Maybe he thinks you have, too."

Scott Roundy's voice was cold. "I don't care to continue the conversation, my friend. Todd Boysee's business is his own. I'm sure he won't look for any trouble where there's none to be had."

Gagnon could not resist a final word. "He'll'meet the stage." He smiled without warmth. "We'll see then."

Bell opened his eyes. "Nothin' to that talk, Roundy. Boysee's a good man. The men he's killed had it comin'. He's kinda touchy about strangers wearin' guns, though."

The conversation lapsed. Atop the stage they heard the passenger with the Spencer moving around. The air grew noticeably colder and the wind seemed to be mounting. A> gust almost lifted the stage. "A norther," Bell said, "bad place to meet it. All flat country for miles."

Scott Roundy lifted the curtain and peered out. Darkness had fallen, but there was sifting snow in the air, and a scattering of it on the ground.

He sat back in his seat and closed his eyes. It was always the same. Once they knew you were a gunfighter they would not let it alone. Men had been killed in utterly senseless battles created by idle talk, the sadistic urge to see men kill, or the simple curiosity of mild men eager to see champions compete. It was an age-old, timeless curiosity that would live as long as men had the courage for battle. He had heard the endless arguments over what would happen if Hickok shot it out with Ben Thompson, or Wyatt Earp with John Ringo, or Boone May with Seth Bullock. Men compared their respective talents, added up their victories, exaggerated the number they had killed.

It was starting again now. "Charlie Storms," Gagnon was saying, "is one of the fastest men alive. Never saw him beat. I don't think Earp would have a chance with him."

Bell, who heard everything, opened his eyes again. "Charlie Storms is dead," he said quietly, "Luke Short killed him in Tombstone."

"Short?" Gagnon was contemptuous. "I don't believe it."

"I heard it, too," Peg Fulton said quietly.

Armodel looked again at Scott Roundy. He was leaning back and had his eyes closed, apparently hearing nothing. Yet he was awake. She had seen his eyes open slightly only a minute or two before. How he must feel to hear this talk. Would that man be waiting for him? If so, what would happen? Half frightened, she looked at Roundy. To think that he might soon be dead!

"None of them are as good as they're cracked up to be," Gagnon said, staring at Roundy. "Meet the right man an' they take water mighty fast."

Roundy's eyes opened. "Did you ever face a gun?" he asked mildly.

"No, but--"

"Wait until you do." Roundy closed his eyes and turned his shoulder away from Gagnon.

Through the crack of the curtain he could see the snow was falling fast, but most of it was in the air. For some time now, the stage had slowed to a walk.

Bell was not asleep. Scott Roundy and Todd Boysee. It would be something to see--and something to tell. He knew how avidly men gathered about to hear stories of a famous gun battle. Concannon had seen the fight between Billy Brooks and the four brothers who came to Dodge hunting him. He had been at the restaurant window when Brooks stepped to the door and killed all four of them in the street. It was history now, but Concannon could hold a crowd any time, just telling of it. Long as he had been in the West, he had known all the great names among gunfighters, but he had never seen a shoot-out between two top men.

This Roundy was cool. He had killed Con Bigelow at Fort Griffin, and Bigelow was ranked with the best. Roundy beat him to the draw and put two slugs into his heart. Bigelow had been a wanted man who laughed at the Rangers and evaded them, until that afternoon when cornered by Scott Roundy.