Marauders' Moon Read online

  Perry glanced obliquely at Webb and then drawled, “You got us wrong, Bannister. The three of us was in the bunk house all night like Meeker said.”

  “What about the other two—and Cousins, here?”

  “They went,” Warren said, “but not us. No, sir. They tried to toll us in on it, but we wasn’t havin’ any. I know when I’m well off, even if them boys didn’t.” He gestured to Webb. “Cousins here couldn’t help hisself. He never wanted to go, but they made him, because he knowed his way around over there.” Now he turned to Webb. “That right, fella?”

  Without ever putting it in words, Warren had made Webb a proposition. If Webb would not tell Bannister they had talked this over among themselves and almost fought for the privilege of going, then Warren would not tell Bannister that it had been Webb who had suggested it.

  Webb nodded. “That’s about it, Bannister. I didn’t have a choice.” He jerked his head toward the others. “These three voted it down and we went on playin’ poker. Pretty soon Lute took me out to get a bottle. Shorty drifted out later. Then they went over and got horses, tied me on mine, and told me to take them over into San Patricio.”

  “So you took them to Tolleston’s?”

  Webb shrugged. “It’s the only outfit I knew. I’d rather take ’em than get shot in the back.”

  Bannister sat back and studied them with quiet arrogance. He knew they were lying. It annoyed him mildly, not because he disapproved of what they had done, but because they had disobeyed him, and that, in a hired inferior, was something Bannister would not put up with. Then he turned to his desk and pulled a letter out from under the mass of papers. Opening it, he glanced at it, then took up his pencil, erased a word, and put another in its place. All the time he was doing this, he was talking to the four men waiting:

  “The whole pack of you are lying. If you want the truth, it’s this. You saw all this preparation going on yesterday and you snooped around until you found it was to be a raid. Since you make a living off things like that, you didn’t want to be left out. Some of you might have been cautious, but most of you wanted to risk it. You got caught. You all had orders, and you’ll take your punishment for disobeying them.” Here he paused and folded the letter again and shoved it back in the heap of papers. Then he turned to them.

  “We’ve got something that passes for a respectable jail around here. I’ll let you sit it out in there until you come to me with the truth. I never hire a liar—or if I do, I take care that I can see through his lies. Take them out, Hugo.”

  “All of ’em?” Hugo asked.

  “Yes. Cousins can be guarded by Britt’s paid guards while they’re all in jail,” Bannister said dryly.

  The Montana men settled into a surly silence. Perry Warren shrugged. Webb’s face was stupid, as expressionless as he could make it while Hugo herded them outside. Directly across from the blacksmith’s shop was the end room of the wing. It had barred windows, a heavy door and served as the jail. Webb and his companions were ordered into it, and the door locked behind them.

  As soon as Meeker left with his prisoners, Bannister, smiling a little, called, “Come out, Mitch.”

  Mitch did. He had calmed down a little during his wait, but his eyes were filled with the same desperation.

  Bannister said kindly, “Sit down, Mitch. That was Cousins. I didn’t want him to see you.”

  When Mitch was seated, Bannister said, “Now tell me this again. You think someone is trying to get you because I gave the orders. Is that it?”

  “That’s right,” Mitch said huskily. He told of hiding in the rain barrel. At this moment Meeker came in and seated himself, listening.

  Mitch went on earnestly: “Then I heard them arguin’. One man wanted to quit, and the other man didn’t. So the second jasper says, ‘Let’s tie a red handkerchief around a dead man and claim we thought it was him!’ But the other man wouldn’t.” Mitch leaned forward in his chair, his face wet with perspiration. “Bannister, if you’re goin’ to do it, do it now!”

  Bannister simply stared at him in mild unbelief. Then he started to laugh, and the chuckles seemed to come from deep in him. He leaned forward and patted Mitch’s knee.

  “I think I understand,” he said. “I’m sure I do.”

  He hunted among the papers on his desk, and after some pretense of rummaging, drew forth the letter he had put back only a few minutes ago. Unfolding it, he studied it carefully, then he showed it to Mitch. “You wrote this, didn’t you?”

  Mitch glanced at it. “Sure. That’s the plan I sent from Wagon Mound.”

  “Look at the postscript,” Bannister said. “Did you write that?”

  Mitch read the postscript. His face lost its tension and in its place was an expression of bewilderment. He looked up at Bannister. “But I never wrote that,” he said earnestly. “This has been changed. Here it says, ‘Miles Kindry will be wearing a red neckerchief, so you’ll know.’ I never wrote that! I wrote, ‘I’ll be wearin’ a red neckerchief, so you’ll know.’” Mitch looked at Bannister and then at Meeker.

  Bannister said, “Yes. I read there that Miles Kindry would be wearin’ a red neckerchief. I thought you wrote it. I wanted Miles Kindry dead, so I gave orders to cut down on the man wearin’ that neckerchief.”

  Mitch still looked puzzled.

  Hugo cleared his throat. “Hell, that’s easy. The man that changed that letter wants Mitch Budrow dead. They figured he’d get shot instead of Miles Kindry.”

  Mitch asked quietly, “Who knows me here?”

  Bannister frowned, looking from Hugo to Mitch. Suddenly he said softly, “Sure, that’s it.” Now he looked at Mitch. “Kean, the station agent, must have been doing a little bounty hunting, Mitch.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  Bannister leaned forward. “You sent your letter about the San Patricio plans to Kean, didn’t you? He was to give them to me.”

  Mitch nodded.

  “And you signed your name, didn’t you?”

  “Sure,” Mitch said.

  Bannister spread his hands. “All right, Kean has had a reward dodger with your name and your picture on the station bulletin board. Likely, as soon as he read your letter and knew you were coming on the raid, he figured he’d collect bounty money on you. So he changes your letter to read ‘Miles Kindry will be wearing a red neckerchief, so you’ll know.’ He knew I’d make a special play for Miles. But if his plan worked, my men would get you, then Kean would step in and collect bounty money on you.” Bannister leaned back in his chair. “I’ll set a few things right with him, you can bet, Mitch.”

  Mitch relaxed. He stared down at the floor like a man who has been reprieved from death and who is dumb with relief and gratitude. Bannister only looked over Mitch’s head to Hugo and there was unspoken praise in Hugo’s eyes.

  Bannister cleared his throat. He did not want to treat this as any more than a mistake, so he thought Mitch should be only mildly reassured.

  “Hugo,” he ordered, “you send a man down to see Kean and post him straight on this. Better yet, stop in and see him yourself when you go in today. Also, make sure all over again that all those reward notices about Mitch are taken down.”

  “Sure,” Hugo said carelessly.

  “As for you, Mitch, you’d better get some sleep. I’ll have a check made out for you when you wake up.” He smiled fondly. “I just want to say this, Mitch. I think you did a wonderful job with this. Not only that, but I’m going to keep you here now. Hugo could split his work with another man and still have a lot to do. Not the ranch work, understand, but the other work—my private work. I think you’ll do it well.”

  Mitch dragged himself to his feet. He was so weak with relief that he could only mumble his thanks. As he was going out, Bannister said, “Better bunk at Mooney’s now, Mitch. It’s safer.”

  When Mitch was gone, Bannister sat back in his chair and cursed softly. Suddenly he said to Hugo, “Who was supposed to get him?”

  “Two of the boys. Good men,
I thought.”

  “Pay them off and tell them to get out of the country!”

  “Is that wise?” Hugo asked.

  Bannister was about to reply, then he closed his mouth and smiled slightly. “All right. Keep them. I’ll have a chance to tend to them.”

  Hugo said, “What about Mitch? He’ll be asleep over there now.”

  “Not now,” Bannister said thoughtfully. “Not around here, either. He’s had a scare. Maybe we can still use him.”

  “Be careful, Wake.”

  “I will. But not now.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  At the Broken Arrow, camp was made the first night under the huge cottonwoods, back of the house. Buck had already talked to Mrs. Partridge, Charley, and the four remaining hands. He had told them that they need not stay with him if they wished to leave, but Buck Tolleston bred a strange loyalty. They all wanted to stay, quarters or no quarters, and were willing to wait for their pay.

  While Martha and Mrs. Partridge got a meal together from the food stored in the fruit cellar, Buck looked around. The barns and corrals and wagon sheds and everything in them was burned, of course. The house still stood, but every bit of wood that went into it was burned. The roof was off, the interior gutted, and nothing remained but a solid, blackened shell.

  Buck had always considered this place temporary, little more than a camp which he would live in until he had taken his old place—Wake Bannister’s Dollar spread—away from him. But now that it was in ruins he realized what deep affection he had held for it. Here was where his girl had grown to womanhood, where he had spent some of the best years of his life.

  He returned to camp under the trees and ate supper. There was little need for talk. All were thinking of the task ahead of them. They turned in after supper and slept soundly.

  Next morning, Martha did what little could be done around the place before the work of construction began again. Day before yesterday she had ridden out to meet Britt, and he had not appeared. Of course all this stupid and bloody fighting which they both hated could have made it impossible for him to meet her, but she wanted to see him. The chances of their ever being married seemed more hopeless now, in the light of what had happened yesterday and the night before. It was a wall that stood between them, growing ever higher, for Martha could not forgive this cruel and senseless ravaging of the Broken Arrow. Still less could she forgive the mass murder that had taken place in Bull Foot. And, try as she might, she could not forget that the man behind all this was Britt Bannister’s father.

  All in all, she was bewildered. She wanted someone to talk to, someone with a calm head. Too, she knew that marriage with Britt was out of the question for years now, since her father would need her help. And the thought of Buck Tolleston ever resigning himself to her marriage with a Bannister was fantastic, in the light of what had happened.

  Another thing she wanted to ask Britt. How was it that this Webb Cousins, whom Britt had promised to guard and keep, had been in the vanguard of these raiders? Had they turned loose every mad dog in Wintering County? With a little shudder she thought of the two dead men, Lute and Shorty, who still lay in the wagon box over where the barn used to be. This morning their graves were being dug.

  She looked at the house, and the sight of it depressed her. Turning away from it, she strolled up the hill. Once on the ridge, she sat down in the shade of a cedar and relaxed. Presently she noticed off to her right an object which she could not identify. Curiosity finally compelled her to rise and go over to it. It was a length of rope, one end of which was sawed raggedly. Beside it was a shard from a broken bottle. They both lay near the tracks of a horse. Picking up the rope, Martha noticed something like dried blood on it.

  She dropped it, wondering about it. Looking closer, she could see the tracks of where a man had dismounted from his horse, and where he had gone over to where two other horses stood. Then the tracks turned and headed down the hill. They were far apart, indicating that the man was in a hurry. Curious, Martha followed them. They took her down to the corner of where the wagon shed used to stand, and then they headed for the house. The man had been running then, for only the toes of his boots left tracks and they were deep in the dirt and far apart. She went on. At the corner of the house they paused, and then there were other marks rounding the corner, new marks. It took her several minutes to puzzle this out, but she got the clue. They were hand prints in the dirt. She could see them in several places where they had not been blotted out by the raiders’ boot marks.

  These hand prints and the print of a man’s knees, followed the line of the house until they came to where the porch had been. She saw, too, where a rock had been moved from its place, but she could not find the rock.

  Standing there, she tried to piece all this together.

  Three horses had been up on the hill. A piece of bloody rope, cut raggedly. Of course! Cut with the bottle. But cut from where? And then she remembered Webb Cousins, standing in the door of the house talking to the man who was demanding the combination of the safe from her. When Webb had made his threat, holstered his gun, she had noticed his bleeding wrists. “Then he was brought over here tied on his horse!”

  She began to wonder why. If he had been tied on his horse, then he would have to wait until those other two were out of sight to free himself. That chance would be supplied when the other two were talking to her. Then it was Webb Cousin’s tracks that she had followed. He had run down to the house and crawled from the corner of it to the porch.

  Why?

  She tried to remember that night. There had been a man standing in the door, training a gun on them while the other man walked across the room. But the man in the door wasn’t Cousins. Then how did Cousins get there—and get a gun, for wasn’t he a prisoner? Or was he?

  She stood there, trying to puzzle it out. Then she walked across the corral lot, hunting for Charley. She saw him and another man digging up near the edge of the timber and set out to walk the distance.

  Charley ceased work when she approached. He glanced at the bulk under a tarp off under the trees and came over to her.

  “Charley, what happened the night we got burned out? Where did you come in?”

  “I was asleep in the bunk house,” Charley said slowly, rubbing his bald head. “I heard the racket of a lot of horses comin’. I knowed it couldn’t be Buck comin’ back, but I didn’t know exactly what it was. I got my guns and headed for the house. I seen the light. Comin’ up close to the porch, I stumbled on a man lyin’ there. Then I looked up and seen that rider whippin’ out a gun and before I could do anything, he’d shot. Then I cut down on him. You know the rest. Them riders came up and you made me give up my gun.”

  “I know. But you say you stumbled over a man. Which man?”

  Charley jerked his thumb toward the tarp. “One of them.”

  “Was he shot?”

  Charley shook his head. “I don’t reckon. His head was bashed in.”

  That would account for the rock, Martha thought. Cousins had used it as a weapon. He had knocked this man in the head, grabbed his weapon, and killed the other man. She thanked Charley and turned away.

  Walking back, she tried to remember what Cousins had said that night. When the first man said to give him a hand, Cousins had said the only hand he would get was a filled one. That was a threat to kill him, and he had. But why? So he could loot the safe? For the first time since that night, she began to wonder.

  Her thoughts were disturbed by seeing two riders headed up the road to the house. One was a woman. It was probably Mrs. Anders come over to offer help or ask for it. Martha hurried ahead, feeling a deep sympathy for this woman whose husband was dead and whose home had been burned.

  It was Mrs. Anders, a gray-haired gentlewoman in a man’s rough clothes. Her face was lifeless, and she did not have the usual smile and cheery word she always gave to Martha. She had come over to borrow food, she said, until one of their hands could butcher out a beef. The hands had stayed in town last night
to help straighten things up.

  Mrs. Partridge went over to get some food and the Seven A Chinese cook went with her to get it.

  Mrs. Anders looked at the house and shook her head. “You were lucky, my dear,” she said to Martha. “Our house was log. It was burned level.”

  “We were lucky,” Martha said.

  Mrs. Anders said nothing for a while, then asked, “Did the whole crowd ride over here?”

  “Yes. Wake Bannister and Hugo Meeker and more than twenty riders.”

  “And not that young whelp, Britt Bannister?” Mrs. Anders asked.

  Martha kept her gaze on the house and did not answer until she had control of herself.

  “No, I don’t think so. I don’t think I know him.”

  Mrs. Anders laughed shortly. “If you ever saw him, you would. He’s twice the devil his father is.”

  Martha asked casually, “Why do you say that? Do you know him?”

  “Know him?” Mrs. Anders echoed bitterly. “I should think so. I had all our provisions down in the adobe well house. He ordered his men to go and haul them up and dump them in the fire. Every bit of food we had on the place. He even wanted to throw the saddles on the corral poles into the barn fire, but Hugo Meeker wouldn’t let him.”

  Martha’s spine grew cold. She could not trust herself to talk immediately. Then she thought that Mrs. Anders must be mistaken, that she was thinking of someone else.

  Martha said slowly then, “I’d heard Bannister’s boy—is Britt his name?—didn’t share his father’s views. I heard he kept out of this quarrel.”

  “He’s a Bannister,” Mrs. Anders said grimly. “He was there. I heard him named, time and again. I heard him call Wake Bannister ‘dad.’ Even if I hadn’t, I could’ve told. He has the same face, the same manner about him.”

  Martha said no more. When Mrs. Partridge returned with the food, Mrs. Anders and her cook rode off. Still Martha sat there, her face pale. Britt was one of these raiders—Britt, who had laughed at this feud, who shared her hatred for it, and for useless bloodshed and killing. No, there was a mistake somewhere. Either Mrs. Anders was wrong or else Britt had changed, and Martha could not believe that of Britt. Still, something kept telling her, he had not come to meet her since he took Cousins away.