Marauders' Moon Page 8

  Wardecker grimaced. “Easy, Buck.”

  Tolleston said nothing. His triumph was complete, so he waited.

  “You can trust this Mitch Budrow?” Wardecker asked.

  “You know him. What do you think?”

  “I allus liked him. Besides, he owes you somethin’. I’d say, yes.”

  “All right.”

  Buck waited. Wardecker packed his pipe and lighted it and sat there, arms folded across the back of his neck, staring at the blue smoke he was exhaling.

  “Hell,” he said quietly. He looked up at Tolleston. “What’s next, Buck?”

  “Cattlemen’s meeting.”

  “And?”

  “If they’ve got any fight, it’ll be out of my hands. If they ain’t, then I reckon I’ll have to do somethin’ I’ve been keeping away from most of my life.”

  “Kill Wake Bannister?”

  “That’s right.”

  “When’ll this meetin’ be?”

  “I left a note to Mac to send Mitch Budrow into town this afternoon. I want them all to hear it from him. The board of directors of the bank is meetin’ this afternoon. That includes almost every cattleman we’ll want. Those that ain’t there and don’t live far we can send for now. And those that live too far will be into town anyway, I reckon, to hear what the bank decides to do, and if it will close down. That bank meetin’ can wait until this is finished.”

  Tolleston was right. Almost every cattleman of any size, for one reason or another, was in town by noon. Those who were directors, Buck requested to gather for the meeting in the bank. The others were asked to attend, since Buck had made plain that it was to be an open meeting, mainly to ask advice. No one in town, outside of Buck and Wardecker and Mitch Budrow, who had arrived at noon, knew the real purpose of the meeting.

  It was held in the bank, and as soon as Buck had recognized the faces of all the men he needed, he directed Mitch to lock the door. It was a grim gathering. All of these men were ranchers, all either stockholders in the bank, or men whose notes the bank held. Directly or indirectly, its welfare was a force in their lives, and this was reflected in their faces. Some of them had been in the posse which had pursued the robbers. That day they had been deeper into Wintering County than ever before and they had not turned back because of fear. It takes time to track fugitives, and these men knew from bitter experience that the deeper they went into Wintering territory and the more time it took, the graver the chance was of being ambushed. Only when the men sent ahead to scout returned to report that a small posse of Wintering men, getting bigger as it came, was approaching, did they turn back. And in that moment many of them realized with bitterness exactly what they had been brewing for themselves for fifteen years. Some wanted to return, band together, and come back and clean up Wintering County, paving the way to the capture of the bank robbers. Others suggested mediation, a parley, a plea for help. Still others were ready to quit, sure that neither of the other plans would succeed. But whatever they believed, they knew that this was the darkest time in their lives. Yesterday Buck Tolleston had purposely avoided talking to them, inciting them. He could win a few over to the side of violence, but not enough. Today he thought he could.

  He rapped on Patton’s desk with his gun butt. His listeners were scattered on the counter, the other two desks, the chairs against the wall.

  He began temperately: “I told you men this was to be a meetin’ of the men interested in the bank, for the purpose of seein’ what could be done.” He paused. “I know what can be done. It don’t concern the bank. It concerns all of us. But before I go on, I want your oaths that what’s said in this room—every last detail of it—will be kept quiet. Any man that don’t feel like givin’ his word can step out.” When none moved, he said, “Then I take it that your oaths have been given. Is that right?”

  They nodded or said “yes,” or merely looked at each other, wondering what was coming.

  “The news I have to give,” Buck went on, his manner increasingly aggressive and terrierlike, “is damn simple! It’s this. I have proof that men over in Wintering County backed the hold-up of our bank and that they are giving the bank robbers refuge there now.”

  Buck saw a half dozen men rise out of their chairs, but he wasn’t watching them. They were the hotheads, like himself. He was watching three of the older ranchers—Lee Wurdemann, a man who sided him in the old days and now owned the second biggest spread in the county; Wes Anders, big, gentle, peaceful; Miles Kindry, mild as May and hog fat—and one of the younger ones, Lou Hasker. It was at Hasker that Buck looked longest, because Hasker’s Chain Link was the county’s biggest ranch, employing the most men, and because Lou Hasker, above all people, had irritated Buck the most in the past with his indifference. Hasker was young, able son of an able father, red-haired, drawling, and quiet. The bank held his note for forty thousand dollars. Thirty thousand of it, earned by a daring drive through the Silver Horn Breaks a month ago with more cattle than had left San Patricio County in ten years, was deposited in the bank, awaiting the month when half the sum fell due. As things stood now, Hasker was ruined, and Buck knew it. The only change in Hasker’s face now was a little tightening of his jaw muscles. His cool voice cut through the hum of swelling talk.

  “Can you prove that, Buck?”

  Buck gestured to Mitch Budrow. “Here’s the man I sent down to Bull Foot. He’s new to them people, so I reckoned he could get away with it. He’ll tell you. I only want to add that I have trusted him in the past and found him reliable.” He turned to Mitch. “Tell them what you told me.”

  Mitch, showing a quiet confidence he did not feel, told in a level, matter-of-fact voice substantially what he had told Tolleston. The assembly heard him out in utter silence, and when he was finished, they still did not speak.

  Suddenly, Lew Hasker said, “Budrow, are you sure you know Hugo Meeker?”

  “No, I ain’t,” Mitch said. “I took the bartender’s word, that and the brand on his horse. But I can tell you what the man I saw looks like.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Mitch pretended to recollect a moment. Some warning voice inside him told him that this was his last chance to do the right thing, and that by the time he had finished this description he would have taken the choice between being damned or dead. He wanted to live.

  “This gent, I should say, come from Texas. I wouldn’t say how old he is, because he likely looked the way he does now when he was twenty and he’ll look that way when he’s sixty. My guess would be forty-five, though. He’s got washed-out hair, and eyes between a light gray and a blue and they’re shallow. He’s got a hatchet face, long, thin mouth; he’s lean and his cheeks is sunk and he smokes without taking the cigarette from his mouth He’s close to six feet, might weigh a hundred and sixty, and he moves slow. He don’t smile neither.”

  “What kind of horse does he ride?”

  “A blue roan branded Dollar on the left hip.”

  A murmur of assent rose from some of the men.

  Hasker went on doggedly. “That’s Hugo. What about these hardcases?”

  Mitch went on stubbornly: “The man I noticed first was about forty. He was wearin’ a flat-brimmed Stetson dented four ways. He had deep-set light eyes and the skin was pulled tight acrost his cheeks. He was thin and not very tall, and I noticed he was chewin’ on a match the whole time I watched him.”

  Wally half rose out of his seat. “That’s the man that covered me on the steps, Hasker.”

  “The other one—” Mitch began, but Hasker waved him quiet. For a long time, Hasker said nothing. He had a coin in his hand which he examined thoughtfully. Because he had been the first to question Mitch, men were waiting for him to act. He looked up at Buck and pocketed the coin.

  “That’s good enough for me. Buck. I’ll back your play.”

  The whole roomful, as of one accord, seconded him.

  Buck swiftly addressed the older men. “How about you, Wurdemann, Anders, Kindry? And you, Sweetser and Pillsbu
ry? And you, Dale? Do you think the way Hasker does?”

  They said “yes,” and said it emphatically.

  “Then,” Buck said, “I step down. You’re willin’ to fight for what’s been taken from you. So am I. I’ll let you decide how.”

  “Stay there, Buck,” Hasker said. “You’ve been tryin’ to rawhide us into this for years. You were right, I reckon. If we’d taken a fightin’ hand in this sooner, we’d never be where we are today. Many’s the time you hoped you could do this. How do you plan it?”

  Buck answered swiftly, “Ride into Bull Foot, burn it down. Burn the courthouse, all the records, all the stores, all the loadin’ pens. And I’ll tell you why. Because the whole town—lock, stock, and barrel—is owned by the Bannisters. You can hurt more Bannisters that way than ridin’ all over the county—all except one, that is. That’s Wake. When you’ve burned the town, then put the Dollar spread in ashes and you’ve got Wintering licked.”

  “They’ve got a railroad,” somebody objected. “It’s easy to build up again.”

  “Burn it down again,” Buck said. “Rustle their stuff, poison their water holes, fire their spreads. It’ll take more than one raid, but the point is—keep hammerin’!”

  “They’ll strike back,” someone else said.

  “Of course they will!” Buck said angrily. “Hell, it’s war, ain’t it? All we want is warnin’ and a chance to strike the first blow.” He quieted down. “That’s my plan. If you can think of a better one, let’s hear it.”

  No one could. The Bannisters, all of the same family, had a hold on Wintering County that was almost ownership. Put them down and you put Wintering down. First, the many Bannisters, then the biggest one. Wake Bannister might receive news of the town’s being plundered, but he would not lift a finger to avenge it. But if the forces were directed against Wake Bannister’s Dollar outfit first, he could, and would, summon the whole county to fight for him. Better to make sure of the town before tackling Wake, so the ranchers reasoned. And it was out of the question to split forces; if that were done, both attacks might fail.

  When the plan was agreed upon, Buck looked at Wardecker, who leaned against the back wall smoking his pipe, taking no part in this. Buck only grinned at him and then turned to Hasker.

  “I don’t have to tell you this has got to be kept secret, Lou. That’s why the doors are locked and I made you give your word.”

  Hasker agreed. One slip and their chances of revenge were destroyed. But, as Hasker looked around the room, he could not pick out a single man who had not suffered a loss at the hands of Wintering County. They would be unlikely to betray the secret.

  “We’ll have to go careful,” Hasker said quietly. He turned to the lone storekeeper in the room. “Bob, how many shells have you got in stock?”

  “Cases of forty-fives and thirty-thirties.”

  “Then we’ll draw on you, and it’ll have to be done secretly, too.”

  They discussed this, and many other things, such as the best trail to take to Bull Foot, the best time, the number of men wanted, who the leaders would be, what the plan of attack would be once in Bull Foot, how the big bunch would be split up.

  Mitch Budrow, toying idly with his hat, stood by Wardecker and did not miss a word. He contrived to give the appearance of an ordinary cow-puncher in a gathering of his superiors, who does not expect to be asked for advice and who would be stricken dumb if he was.

  Wardecker pitied him, the unconscious instrument of so much death and destruction. He wondered if Mitch Budrow in after years would not look back on this day with disgust and remember it as a mistake that could not be written off.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Webb spent his first night in the single bunk at the far corner of the bunk house chained by leg irons to the upright. He spent the first day chained to the leg of the heavy table on which he and Lute and Shorty and another wry-faced Northerner played poker. No one from the main house came near him, and the day was dull for them all. Lute wanted to ride that afternoon, but he was afraid to take Webb with him. By night the Montana men regretted their bargain, and, like children who have been kept in a house all day by rain, were in a savage mood by bedtime.

  The next morning, Lute greeted Webb in a better humor.

  “I’m goin’ to take these things off you today.”

  “You might chain me to an anvil,” Webb said dryly.

  “I might. But I think I’m a good enough shot that I don’t have to.”

  Webb knew this was a warning, but he was glad of this new freedom. If he made just one bad move, he knew Lute would kill him, and do it cheerfully. Lute was tough, wise, seasoned, experienced enough in things of this sort that he was far more effective in keeping Webb a prisoner than a strong jail would have been.

  At breakfast over in the bunk house that morning, Webb found that Lute would talk. It seemed that Lute and his men were allowed the freedom of the ranch—all except the big house. They could ride wherever they chose, except north and into Bull Foot. They could drink all they wanted, and had an account at the store and the cantina. But they were forbidden to associate with the ranch hands and to talk to strangers. That seemed liberal enough to Webb, opening many avenues of possible escape.

  Back at the bunk house, Britt Bannister was waiting for him, his face a little grim, so that Webb wondered if, after all, Bannister was going to turn him over to the law.

  Outside, he and Britt Bannister squatted against the wall and rolled smokes, while Lute watched them idly from the door.

  “I’m sorry I had to do this,” Bannister began.

  “I’ll bet you are.”

  “The reason I’m sorry,” Bannister went on, “is because I don’t want to do it. Nothing would please me more than having you ride over to Buck Tolleston and tell him what you heard.”

  Webb looked sharply at him, then away. “Sure,” he mocked. “Why don’t you, then?”

  “Because I gave that killer’s wench my word,” Britt said bitterly.

  Webb simply pivoted on his heel, unfolding like a coiled spring and drove his fist into Britt Bannister’s face. Bannister’s head snapped back against the wall and then he slumped over on his side and lay still. Webb looked up to see Lute’s gun trained on him.

  Lute walked over to him. “Now, why did you do that?”

  “Ask him,” Webb said thickly, and started for the bunk house.

  Lute bawled for his partner, who took over the job of carting Britt away while Lute watched Webb. Webb stood there in the door of the bunk house, rubbing his stinging knuckles. He didn’t know why he had done that. The action was purely automatic, a thing he would have done had he heard any decent woman slandered. But he wondered what had got into Britt, what change had come over him since last night.

  In a few minutes Britt walked over to the door, declining the help Lute’s partner offered. He paused in front of Webb, his hand to his jaw.

  “Maybe you don’t know where you are,” he said thickly.

  “About two steps from a shot in the back.”

  Britt said jeeringly, “So she looks good to you, eh?”

  “Good enough to keep her name out of your mouth.”

  Lute put in quietly to Webb: “Son, you spraddle him again, and I’m liable to get mad.”

  Britt ignored Lute, as did Webb. They stood perhaps six feet apart, sizing each other up, glaring at each other like two wary dogs who only need a word to make them join battle.

  Then Britt sneered. “She’s killer’s spawn, Cousins. You can like her if you want, but you can’t change that. Her old man’s a murderer and all her kin are as bad. She is, too.” It was not the anger in Britt’s face that Webb noted; it was the bitterness in his voice.

  “That’s a different story from what I overheard yesterday,” Webb said.

  “Shut up damn you!”

  Webb went on: “It seemed yesterday you both agreed to use your heads in this ruckus when nobody else was doin’ it. You both hated this feud.” He smiled quietly. �
�What’s the matter? Have a bad dream?”

  With a snarl in his throat, Britt came at him. Webb put both hands on the door-sill, raised his foot, and stopped Britt’s rush by placing a boot in his chest and pushing. Bannister went down, sprawling on his back. Webb turned to Lute: “What am I goin’ to do, let him beat me up?”

  “If you’re smart, you will,” Lute said.

  “Then I’m not.”

  He stepped off the door-sill to the ground, facing Britt, who was just rising. Bannister did not wait a second. He lunged at Webb, arms flailing. Webb chopped down on Britt’s forearm, grunting as the deflected blow caught him in the stomach. His left hand, ready cocked, looped over in a hook that caught young Bannister behind the ear. It was as if sudden paralysis took hold of him. His guard dropped and he stood there shaking his head groggily.

  Suddenly Hugo Meeker’s voice whipped out across the bright morning. “Hit him again and I’ll kick you from here to Bull Foot.”

  Webb looked up. Hugo was lounging against a corner of the bunk house, a cigarette pasted to his lower lip. Webb let his hands down to his side and stepped away.

  “I’ve licked him twice in fifteen minutes. If you don’t want him mussed up, take him away.”

  Hugo slouched over. He grabbed Britt by the shirt and tilted his head back and then slapped him sharply a half dozen times. Then he said to Lute’s partner, “Take him over to the main bunk house.”

  Britt gone, Hugo turned to Webb. He had not yet taken the cigarette from his mouth. “Because that kid can’t scrap, don’t think the rest of us can’t.”

  “I hadn’t even thought about it,” Webb said. “But when somebody swarms all over me, I swarm back.”

  Hugo looked at him coldly and did not even wait for him to finish, but walked away. Webb sat down on the door-sill, breathing hard. Lute came out and squatted against the wall and rolled a smoke.

  “Now you’ve done it,” he said impersonally.

  “Sure.”

  They were quiet a long time. Webb built his morning smoke and dragged its raw bite into his lungs. Lute, by his own predatory reasoning, had pretty well called the turn.