Marauders' Moon Page 15

  So Mitch whistled. It was a bright morning, with a ground breeze that would not die yet for an hour. Mitch looked at the country and found much to admire. He had left the Dollar just before dawn. Ahead of him, its grass ruffled by the slow wind, the land tilted up to a pair of buttes in the distance. He had followed the draw east of the Dollar, which Wake had told him would put him on the stage road to Wagon Mound. He was to follow this to the first road that forked to the left. This was the road to Ted Bannister’s Spade B.

  Mitch didn’t have any trouble finding the road. He was riding along without a care in the world, a little of the old impudence back in his eyes.

  When he saw a rider ahead of him coming his way, he made no move to pull off into the brush, although that was his impulse and he found himself wanting to. Why should he? He was a Dollar hand, as good a man as he would meet. Better, probably.

  Mitch didn’t notice the cowboy very carefully. He was walking his horse, and he had his head down, and Mitch could hear him whistling.

  When Mitch was close enough to him, he called, “Howdy, friend.”

  The man looked up quickly, and in the same motion a gun appeared in his right hand, and its barrel looked as big as a cave to Mitch.

  Mitch dragged his gaze from the gun to the man’s face, and seeing it, Mitch’s happiness died. He licked his lips.

  “You, Cousins,” he said faintly.

  Webb nodded. “Better unstrap your belt and hang it over the horn, Mitch, then get down and lead your horse off the road.”

  “This—this ain’t a—”

  “No,” Webb said quietly. “I don’t reckon so, although I may change my mind after I hear your story.”

  Mitch took off his gun belt and hung it over his saddle horn, then dismounted and wearily led his horse off the trail and down into a shallow arroyo. Webb followed and dismounted.

  “Sit down, Mitch,” Webb ordered. “This may take some time.”

  Mitch sat against the arroyo bank while Webb, holstering his gun, squatted against the other bank. Webb rolled a smoke and lighted it and then squinted at Mitch, who was waiting patiently, his face harried and humble.

  “I got out last night, Mitch. I rode into Bull Foot to ask a few questions.” He regarded Mitch coldly. “Twenty-some riders ambushed, Mitch. Are you proud of it?”

  Mitch cleared his throat. “I had to.”

  “Had to sell out the man you worked for. Sold his friends, and him, too, to the guns of a damn maniac.”

  “I had to,” Mitch repeated. “I always worked for Bannister. If I hadn’t, I’d be dead now.”

  Webb’s eyes were cold with contempt. “Every ranch of any size in San Patricio is burned, Mitch. Wagon Mound is burned. Men are dead. Do you think your cheap carcass is worth that?”

  Mitch said nothing.

  “You work for Bannister, Mitch?”

  “Yes.”

  “He likes you, trusts you?”

  Mitch looked up. “Yes,” he said cautiously.

  “Did you know I was locked up with three of those Montana gunmen?”

  “I heard it.”

  “Know where they are?”

  Mitch shook his head.

  “They’re up this trail, waitin’, cached behind boulders. They got three hundred dollars apiece in their pockets from Bannister. They’re waitin’ for someone, Mitch. Know who?”

  Mitch shook his head dumbly.

  “You.”

  Mitch licked his lips. The news settled on him like a blanket of grief. He didn’t even doubt this redhead’s word, because it all seemed true, seemed that this was what he should have expected all the time. All the other things, the trust that Bannister put in him, the confidence he professed in him, were artificial, and he might have known it. All Bannister wanted was to get him away from the ranch long enough to gun him. He said quietly, “Yes.”

  Surprised, Webb asked, “You expected it?”

  “Yes. If I’d used my head, I might have.” He stared down at the sand a long time, then he said calmly, “You one of ’em, too?”

  “Not me,” Webb said. “I’m turning you over to somebody else. Somebody that’ll want to talk to you just as I did.”

  “Tolleston?”

  “That’s right.”

  Mitch shuddered. His eyes were filled with blank despair. “Not that, Cousins. If that’s my ticket, I’d ruther you shot me now.”

  “Rather be shot than hung,” Webb murmured.

  Mitch nodded. He knew what his life would be worth over there. He knew what it would be worth here.

  Webb said, “Well, come along, fella. That’s where you’re goin’ anyway.” He stood up, waiting for Mitch.

  But Mitch did not stir. He only shook his head slowly. “No, I ain’t. You better shoot me right now. I ain’t goin’ over to San Patricio.”

  Webb said, softly, “The hell you’re not,” and palmed up his gun.

  Mitch scrambled to his feet, facing Webb. He was breathing hard, and his face was a dead white, his eyes wild with terror.

  “Come ahead!” he said flatly. “Fight me or shoot me, I don’t care which! But I ain’t goin’ to Tolleston unless I go dead. Come ahead!”

  Webb hesitated before the genuine terror he saw. He felt the same kind of pity for Mitch that he felt for a cornered coyote, but, nevertheless, it was pity.

  “Why, you damned fool,” he drawled. “If you stay here, Bannister’ll hunt you out and gun you like he would a rattlesnake. Over there you’ll get justice and a trial, which is more than you deserve!”

  “Go ahead and shoot,” Mitch said doggedly. “Maybe I will get killed here. I know I will. But I’d rather do that than go back with you!”

  Webb watched him, puzzled. His jaw muscles bulged a little and he hefted his gun. “I’m not goin’ to fool with you, Budrow. If you’re next to Bannister, you know what he’s plannin’. Do you think I’m goin’ to turn you loose, when I have a chance to find that out from you?” He took a step toward Mitch. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know,” Mitch said quietly, “but you ain’t takin’ me alive!”

  Webb stopped. He said slowly, “All right, tell it.”

  And then, talking so fast that his words were almost a jumble, Mitch told Webb of Bannister’s plans. It came out in a torrent of words, all of the details of the plan to buy the Chain Link, to divert the water before the railroad built in, and thereby crown the San Patricio defeat with this last sardonic thrust that would turn the county into a worthless desert. As Mitch talked, Webb knew he was telling the truth. The man was talking from sheer terror, and what he said about the railroad and about Hasker showed a knowledge he could have picked up only from Bannister. Every question Webb asked was answered.

  Mitch was talking for his life. He told of how he first met Bannister, how he had spied on Tolleston, how he had transmitted the plans to Bannister, how he had seen the massacre, and how he knew then he was slated to die. All of it, his fear, these long days of panic, came out in pitiable sincerity, until Webb wanted to look away. He felt a shame for Mitch that made him want to shut the man’s mouth and stop the crawling and pleading and cringing.

  Mitch finished: “That’s all I know. I’ve told you all. I’m guilty of everything you say but I ain’t goin’ back to San Patricio. I’m scared of Bannister, but I’m more scared of them. If you want to shoot, go ahead.”

  Webb cuffed his Stetson back and looked meditatively at Mitch. “If I don’t take you, what’ll you do?”

  “I don’t know,” Mitch said miserably.

  “Run back to Bannister and tell him you’ve tipped his hand for him?”

  Mitch looked up quickly. “God, no!” he whispered. “He’d kill me before I’d finished! He’d do worse! He’d torture me. I don’t know how, but I know he would.” The shudder that moved his body was real, genuine fear.

  Webb weighed the truth of this. Mitch could gain nothing from Bannister by returning to him now—nothing except a horrible death. He was marked to die anyway, because he
knew so much. That was inevitable. And if he returned to Bannister with the confession that he had told Bannister’s plans, then Bannister’s rage would be boundless. No, Mitch wasn’t apt to return to Bannister.

  And what about taking him to Tolleston? Webb could almost see the fury of that little man when he heard Mitch’s story. And once it got around the county, there would be no trial. These men loved justice, but there was a limit to that love. They would yank Mitch out of the jail and lynch him. While he probably deserved it, Webb couldn’t bring a man back to that. It would be on his conscience forever. And he couldn’t stand here and level a gun and shoot him.

  “I won’t take you to Tolleston, Budrow,” Webb said slowly, watching Mitch. “I won’t take you anywhere. Bannister’s reward poster will take care of you. If you’re smart, you’ll light out of this country on a high lonesome and keep ridin’ till you’ve ridden a remuda to death. And then ride after that. You may live a year, but I doubt it. Me, I hope you don’t.”

  He turned to his horse and rode off. Mitch did not even look up to watch him go. But he heard him, and the words Webb had spoken were graven in Mitch’s memory.

  Mitch was thinking clearer and straighter than he had ever thought in his life. If he returned to the Dollar with the news that he had given the plot away, he would be killed before he finished telling. If he returned and said nothing about meeting Webb, he would be killed anyway. If he rode out of this country, then he would be the prey of any man with a memory for faces. Weren’t there already reward posters out? And wasn’t Cousins right when he said that Bannister would raise the reward ante until it totaled a sum that would induce men to leave home and jobs to hunt him out? He couldn’t stay in Wintering County. He couldn’t hide in San Patricio. He couldn’t ride away from both.

  For many long minutes Mitch sat there, sifting sand through his fingers, thinking. Finally he looked up at the sky, and the expression on his face was one of surprise. He looked around him, as if all this was unfamiliar. He looked at his horse, standing hipshot in the warm sunlight, stomping an occasional fly. The jingling of the bridle chain attracted him. Funny, he thought, how you noticed little things like that, or the markings on your horse at a time like this. For instance, he had not noticed this morning that the horse he had snaked out of the corral had a perfect star on his forehead. Mitch noticed a lot of things like that, trivial things, and all the while he had a sense of inexorable time passing.

  Presently he got up and walked over to his horse. The gun slung in its belt over the saddle horn attracted him. He took out the .45 and looked at its sheen. He cocked it and then looked down the barrel. It looked big. He shuddered and let it off cock and then threw it away. The belt he threw away, too.

  Then he mounted and sought the road. He didn’t pause there but resolutely turned his horse toward the Twin Buttes.

  He was glad Cousins hadn’t told him where those three Montana hardcases were forted up. He hoped they were good shots.

  Presently he started thinking about his mother back in Texas. Would Wake send her money as a sop to his conscience? Perhaps. It didn’t matter much, because he had sent her enough as it was. He had never told her about Mitch killing that girl in Tucson because, after all, Bannister was a gentleman in some ways. That would be one of the ways.

  Mitch was thinking about that girl when the shots came.

  Warren, Les, and Manny were good shots. They did not need to be, however, for they were not more than twelve feet from where Mitch passed.

  The shots drove Mitch over the saddle horn onto his horse’s neck. The horse shied, sloping Mitch off, and then stampeded.

  He lay there dead in the sand, three neat holes in his back, while the sound of shells being ejected from guns clicked out in that sunny morning silence.

  “Now we can smoke,” Warren said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Webb did not make the mistake of thinking he could ride into Tolleston’s place and be welcomed. He knew Buck still thought him one of the original bank robbers, hired by Bannister, and his belief had been vindicated by Webb’s presence at the burning of the Broken Arrow.

  First, Buck would have to be made to listen to reason. Webb was prepared to put up with the insults and the abuse, possibly attempted shooting, that was sure to come from Tolleston. He only hoped that Martha Tolleston, with the charity natural to a woman, would prevent Buck from doing anything rash until he had heard Webb’s story.

  Webb rode all day, avoiding trails and roads, but holding to a course which would inevitably bring him to the Broken Arrow. When darkness fell, he was on reasonably familiar ground, and he proceeded north.

  His first glimpse of the Broken Arrow was from the same place he had seen it last with Lute and Shorty. There was a camp of sorts out under the trees, and by the light of the big fire Webb could see the shell of the house.

  Dismounting, he tied his horse to a cedar and slung his gun belt over the saddle horn. He hated this, but it was better to put all temptation aside. He might lose his temper, and once he went for a gun, there would be no quitting until he or Tolleston was down.

  He made his way down the slope, and as he approached the fire he could distinguish people. Martha was sitting by her dad, who was seated on a chuck box. Charley was cleaning up after supper, with the aid of Mrs. Partridge. The hands were sprawled out around the fire, listening to Buck.

  Webb walked on slowly, careful to make no noise. He chose to approach the fire in full view of Buck, should he look up.

  It was one of the hands, Chuck Martin, who first caught sight of the man approaching the fire. Martin straightened up, his hand falling to his gun.

  Buck saw that gesture and looked up, just as Webb stepped into the circle of firelight. For a moment no one moved, and then Buck exploded off the chuck box, his hand streaking for his gun.

  And as Webb had hoped, Martha intervened. She seized her father’s wrist. “Dad, dad, don’t! Don’t you see he hasn’t a gun!”

  Buck started to brush her roughly aside, when Martin rose, gun in hand. Webb didn’t move, didn’t attempt to run or to dodge. There was a faint smile on his lean, freckled face, a look of amused patience. Martin, cocking his gun, looked beyond Webb into the night.

  “I’m alone,” Webb said. “I came to talk.”

  “I got a gun on him, Buck,” Martin said.

  Tolleston strode around the fire, Martha behind him. Stopping before Webb, Tolleston said ominously, “You didn’t come back here to hang, Cousins. What’s behind this?”

  Webb said, “I want to talk.” He looked at Martha for help, but her face was tense. She, too, suspected this was a trap.

  Buck pointed his gun at Webb and said, without turning, “Chuck, take a pasear up over that ridge. Ed, go out and listen for riders across the creek. Charley, douse that fire.”

  “Slow down,” Webb said easily. “You’ll only have to build it up again. I escaped from Bannister’s this mornin’. I got a stolen horse and a gun belt on the saddle over on the ridge. I ain’t been followed. I’m alone.”

  Martha said, “I think he means it, dad. Don’t be so excited.”

  “Get away from that fire, all of you!” Buck ordered sharply. “I’m going to see. Get on, Charley.”

  They waited in the half-gloom of the trees until Ed returned, and a little later, Charley.

  “His horse is there,” Charley said.

  “I don’t hear a thing, Buck,” Ed said.

  Tolleston seemed to hesitate. Then one of the hands who had vanished off in another direction returned. Webb was surprised to see that it was Stoop, the long cowboy he had fought with the first night, and whom Tolleston had sent across the desert to check upon Webb’s past.

  Webb smiled at seeing him, but did not speak.

  Tolleston said, “Stay out there, Regan. You, Charley, go up on the ridge and keep a lookout. If anything looks funny or you hear anything, shoot once.” Then he turned to Webb. “Get over here,” he said, indicating the fire.

 
Webb was prodded over to the chuck box, and Martin searched him for hide-outs after which Tolleston ordered him to sit down. Tolleston never holstered his gun, and his eyes were dancing with anger.

  “So you’ve come crawlin’ back here, hopin’ you can lie yourself out of a hang-noose? Well, go ahead and talk, son. Talk me deaf, if you can.”

  “Can I smoke?” Webb asked.

  Tolleston nodded. Webb was stalling for time, hoping Tolleston would cool off. His fingers were steady as he built a smoke and lighted it. A way to begin would be the hardest.

  He looked up at Buck and Martha. “Sit down, all of you. I reckon this’ll take most of the evenin’.”

  “What will?” Buck snarled.

  “The story of how Bannister is finally goin’ to drive you men to the wall—and if he does, you’ll stay there this time.” When Buck did not move, Webb said again, “Sit down. I won’t run. And this’ll take time.”

  Tolleston dragged a saddle out and told Martha to sit on it. Then Buck kicked the fire and ordered Chuck and Ed to get rifles and sit across the fire. For himself he dragged a spring seat from the wagon into the firelight and sat by Martha. He held a six-gun loosely in his hand.

  “All right,” he said curtly. “I want to see you beg. Go ahead. Make me a deal, you cheap killer! Trade me what you’ve overheard for money.”

  “Dad!” Martha said softly.

  “But to begin with,” Buck said. “You offer me any kind of a deal at all, and I won’t save you for a trial. You still want to talk?”

  Webb smoked calmly, his face averted, watching the fire. When Buck had ceased talking, Webb looked at him. “You through?”

  Buck started to rise, a strangled noise in his throat, but Martha held him down.

  Webb said, “Mitch Budrow is the man who betrayed you, Tolleston. He’s always been in Bannister’s pay. A little over ten months ago he stumbled into a line camp up in the Fryin’ Pans, didn’t he?”