A Noose for the Desperado (11 page)

I started with the bartender, by putting him back to work as if
nothing had happened. Then I marched the Marshal back into the office,
and there we waited for things to begin to happen.

“You'll never get away with it, Cameron,” he kept saying.

But I would, and he knew I would. Then I began going through Basset's
things again and finally I found the thing that would nail Kreyler down
just the way I wanted him. It was a big ledger book that the fat man
had used to make his bookkeeping entries in, and every penny of
smuggled silver was accounted for right there, along with the money he
had paid out to Kreyler and the Indian and all the rest. I looked at it
and sat back and grinned, and the Marshal knew it was all over.

“Now,” I said, “I think we can do business together, Marshal. We'll
keep things just like they were when Basset was running things. You
furnish the protection and I'll see that you get a good share of the
profits. What do you think about that?”

“I think you're crazy. You're wanted in every state west of St.
Louis. It would be suicide for a United States marshal to try to do
business with you.”

“Maybe,” I said, “but it would be slow and you'd have a chance to
build up a stake.” I tapped the ledger. “Here's something for you to
think about. Say I turned this ledger over to somebody in Tucson—say a
lawyer that I could depend on, or maybe even a sheriff—with
instructions that the book was to be turned over to the United States
marshal's office if they didn't get the word from me once a month to
hold onto it. Of course, I wouldn't ride into Tucson myself, but I
could get somebody else to do it.”

He could cheerfully have cut me into pieces and thrown me to the
dogs. But I had him where the hair was short. And he knew it. For a
long while he just sat there, angry thunderheads boiling behind his
eyes.

At last he said, “I'll have to think it over.”

“Think it over, but the answer better be yes. And in the meantime
don't try to beat this ledger to Tucson and put the law on my tail.”

He didn't say anything, so I sat there and let him hate me until Bama
got back.

“I don't know,” Bama said wearily. “Some of the men don't like it.
They didn't care much for Basset, but they just don't like the idea of
somebody coming in and shooting his way to the top.”

“Did you tell them about getting a full cut in silver?”

“I think maybe that will do it,” he said. “They're talking it over
now among themselves, and we'll know within an hour or so if they're
going to work for you.” He looked at Kreyler and then at me. “No matter
what they decide,” he went on, “you'll never get away with it.”

“Kreyler's been telling me the same thing,” I said, “but look at
this.” And I showed him the ledger and after a minute he caught on what
I was going to do with it.

“I think I'd better have a drink.”

“I'll have one with you. We've got something to celebrate here.
Kreyler?”

“If it's all right with you,” the Marshal said flatly, “you can
celebrate by yourself.”

“Sure, if that's the way you feel about it.” Then I picked up his gun
and threw it at him. “You can have this, only don't get any funny
notions. That Marshal's badge won't stop a bullet.”

Kreyler buckled his belt on and walked out of the place, and Bama and
I went out to the bar and had the bartender bring us a bottle. Bama
downed three fast ones then leaned on the bar and held his head in his
hands.

“What's the matter with you?

“I guess I'm just a little sick.”

“You'll get over it. In a few weeks we'll have all the money we need
and we'll leave this town behind.”

“Are you sure?” he said, looking at me. “What happened to you,
anyway? Yesterday you were as sick of this mess as I was and all you
wanted was to get out.”

“I still want to get out,” I said. “It's just that I've found a
better way to do it. What's the sense in going off half-cocked? This
business of Basset's fell right in my lap. Why shouldn't I take it long
enough to get a little money?”

“No reason, I guess,” he said. “I was just hoping that it wouldn't
work out this way. But then, nothing ever seems to work out, does it?”

I couldn't figure the guy out, and I never did figure him out
completely. I didn't say so in as many words, but here I was offering a
partnership in a well-paying business and he seemed to be sorry about
the whole thing. It wasn't the prettiest business in the world—I could
see that—but what the hell, he had been in it longer than I had.

After a while we heard boot heels hit the dirt walk outside the
saloon and we had company. Four men pushed through the batwings and
stood looking at us.

“Basset's scouts,” Bama said. “They're probably acting as spokesmen
for the other men.”

One man stepped out in front of the others, then walked around the
tables till he could see Basset where he was still sprawled out. For a
long minute he just looked at the dead fat man, and then he said, “By
God, he's dead, all right.”

Then he walked over to Bama and me and poured himself a drink from
our bottle.

“I hear you're the one that did it,” he said to me.

I didn't say anything. He was a lean, leathery man with about fifteen
cents' worth of tobacco working in one cheek, causing a brown dribble
at the corner of his mouth, which disappeared into a bushy, dirty
beard. He looked about as excited as a dead armadillo. He sure didn't
look like a man stricken with grief.

“Well, maybe you done us a favor, but that's to be found out later, I
guess. I hear you're settin' yourself up in Basset's place.”

“That's right.”

“What makes you think you're big enough to hold a job like that?”

“Any man that feels bigger can take it from me the way I took it from
Basset.”

He considered that carefully, over another drink. He studied my guns.
He studied the dead man. “Look,” I said. “I'm offering you men a better
deal than you ever got out of Basset. You'll get a fair cut from every
raid. The men can watch the money while it's being counted and split
up. And, starting now, those brass buttons of Basset's are no good.
I'll buy them up with real silver.”

He sipped his drink thoughtfully. “How about Kreyler? We can't do
anything without him.”

“Kreyler's staying with us. Never mind why, but he'll be with us to
the end.”

Another long minute went by while the scout weighed things in his
mind. He had the power to make or break me, and we both knew it. I
hadn't made up my mind what I was going to do if he said no.

Luckily, I didn't have to worry about it. The scout shifted his cud
and said, “Well, I never liked the sonofabitch much, anyway.” And he
motioned to the men standing in the doorway. “You might as well come on
in, boys, and have a drink with the new boss.”

There wasn't anything to it after that. We buried Basset in a gully
near the Huachuca foothills, and by night the saloon was doing business
as usual. I threw Basset's things out of the back end of the place and
moved my things in, what there were of them, and called Kreyler and
Bama and the scouts together for a pow-wow.

“I haven't been here long enough to know just how Basset ran things
here,” I said, “but what I saw of it I didn't like. First, there's that
business of letting the smuggler outriders get behind us while we were
sitting in ambush. I want a map drawn of those mountains and foothills,
and I want every cut and gully and rock and sage brush on it. Like the
maps they use in the Army when they're getting ready to plan a battle.
Bama, you used to be a soldier. Can you draw a map like that?”

Bama shrugged. “I guess I can try.”

We were sitting in the office, the four scouts, me, Bama, and
Kreyler. The door was closed but we could still hear the saloon noise
on the other side. The scouts looked sleepy. Bama looked thirsty.
Kreyler didn't look any way in particular, but I had an idea of what
was going on inside him.

I said, “Bama, it will be your job to do the map. In the morning you
can take two scouts into the hills and go to work on it. I don't care
how long it takes, just so you get everything on it. The other two
scouts can ride off toward Mexico and see what you can find in the way
of smuggler trains.”

Kreyler looked up at that.

“You can't push too hard on a thing like this,” he said. “We can't
attack every smuggler train trying to make its way to Tucson. They
expect a few attacks, but if it happens too often they'll change their
route and that will be the end of a good thing.”

I could see the scouts agreeing with him, and Bama too. “We're not
going to try to get them all,” I said, “but the ones we do go after,
we're going to do it right. That's the reason I want the map. If we
pick our spot right, there's no reason why we should get shot up. And
besides, we won't need so many men if everything is done right, and
that means a bigger cut for everybody.”

They liked that, especially the scouts, and after a while we got down
to details.

“How long have you been thinking about this?” Bama asked after the
others had gone.

“Just since this morning. How long do you think I've been thinking
about it?”

But he only shrugged and let it go.

“The next thing we've got to do is take care of this ledger,” I said.
“We can't follow Kreyler around with a gun all the time, and anyway,
this thing is better than a gun. It keeps the Marshal tied to us and
keeps him from putting a bullet in my back at the same time.”

“You're really going into this, aren't you?” Bama said, and I tried
to read some meaning into it, but there wasn't anything there but a
thick, heavy drawl.

He sat there looking at me with no expression at all. At that moment
he looked as if he had lived a hundred years and every year had been a
hard one. “If I had the guts,” he said, “I'd tell you to go to hell.
But I haven't got the guts. So if you'll get me a bottle of whisky I'll
tell you what you'll have to do about Kreyler.”

I think at that moment he really hated me. But, like he said, he
didn't have the guts to do anything about it. Anyway, I was getting
used to his moods and the way he talked, so I slapped him on the
shoulder and said, “It's not going to be as bad as all that.”

I opened the door and yelled to the bartender, and in a minute we had
a bottle and a couple of tumblers on the desk.

Bama said, “I know a lawyer in Tucson who would handle the ledger for
you, but I couldn't risk showing myself in a place like that. And
neither could you. What you've got to have is a man who isn't wanted by
the law here in Arizona. It would be better if he wasn't wanted at all,
but it's not likely we'll find a man like that. I think I've got the
man you want.”

I waited until Bama finished his drink, then he went on. “He's just a
kid—much more of a kid than you are. He came riding into town today
sometime after the shooting. From Texas, by the look of his rig. He's
out in the saloon and you can talk to him if you want to.”-

“If you think he's the one we need.”

So Bama got up and went into the saloon, and after a minute he came
back with a hay-haired kid who looked to be about seventeen years old.
He wore blue overalls that had been patched several times around the
rump and knees, and heavy brogans, and a dirty felt hat that had part
of the brim torn off. He sure didn't look like much, but there was
something about him that gave me kind of a shock.

It was almost like looking into a mirror and seeing myself as I had
been at that age—except that I had never worn those nester's overalls
and brogans. But it was his face, I guess, that got me, and his eyes.
His eyes were pale blue and they were kind of bewildered and they
didn't know much of anything. And maybe there was a little fear in
them, and uncertainty.

“Well, son,” Bama said, reaching for a drink, “how does it feel to be
in the presence of the mighty? Of course, you've heard of Talbert
Cameron, desperado, killer, as they say on the 'Wanted' posters. The
fastest gunman ever to come out of Texas, the scourge of lawmen,
soldiers, and just plain downright honest citizens.”

I wished to hell that Bama would shut up, but he kept running on and
the kid's eyes got bigger and bigger. And I couldn't get away from that
feeling that the kid was myself standing there, getting my first look
at a real gunman and being a little stunned and awed by it. I said,
“For Christ's sake, Bama, shut up.” Bama grinned a little, sadly, and
shrugged. “Go ahead and sit down, son. I don't reckon he'll bite you.”

The kid sat down on the edge of a chair and stared at me. He
swallowed a couple of times and his Adam's apple flopped around while
he tried to think of something to say.

I said, “Bama tells me you're from Texas. What part?” He gulped.
“South,” he said faintly. “Along the Nueces River.”

I'd never been in the brush country, but by looking at the kid I got
a pretty good idea of what it was like. It would be blazing sun and
blistering wind and men grubbing for a living on land that was never
meant to be worth a damn for anything. But those men would love the
land, and they would live on it, and fight on it, and die on it. I
wondered what had made the kid leave it. “Have you got a name?” I said.
“Yes, sir.” He was beginning to find his voice now. “Rayburn. John
Rayburn.”

Bama was sitting on the desk, soberly studying the kid, and I guessed
that Bama was also seeing something of himself in this lost,
bewildered-looking kid who called himself John Rayburn. After a minute
he spoke quietly, with a gentleness in his voice that I had never heard
before.

“Do you want to tell us about it, Johnny? We're all pretty much in
the same fix here, as far as the law goes. And you are running from the
law.”

“I've been doin' that, all right,” the kid said, and he looked at me
and Bama, “but I sure never figured to wind up in any place like this.”
His gaze settled on me. “Are you really the Tall Cameron that they
talked so much about in Texas?”