High Wild Desert (15 page)

“Sit down and shut up, Johnson,” the Ranger said. He stared at the two in silence until at length a knock resounded on the front door. “Come in,” the Ranger called out.

Adele Simpson stepped inside carrying an armload of neatly folded clothing and a pair of boots she'd picked up at the mercantile store. She averted her eyes at the sight of the Ranger as he stood wrapped in the towel.

“Sam, I came from the hotel as soon as I heard what happened to that poor woman and what you three did to save her,” she said. “I brought you these clothes, compliments of the store owner. I hope they fit.”

“Obliged, Adele,” Sam said eagerly. He leaned his rifle against the wooden chair. “They'll fit, I promise, leastwise until mine are washed and dry. Stepping in, taking the clothes she held out for him, he walked around behind a freestanding gun cabinet waiting to be installed and dressed himself.

“Ranger, can I ask you something?” Adele called out to him after a moment of contemplation.

“Yes,” Sam said, pulling on the black miner boots.

“Did Cisco help you?” Adele asked. “I mean did he do his part getting her out of that waste ditch without you threatening him, or forcing him to?”

Listening from their seat against the wall, Carnes and Johnson looked at each other.

“
Waste ditch?
”
Johnson whispered with a wincing expression.

“Adele,” Sam answered, straightening his shirt collar as he stepped around the gun cabinet, “I have to say, Cisco surprised me, the way he pitched in when none of the townsmen would help—none except Deputy Dankett, that is.” He paused, then added, “Sometimes it takes the worst situation to bring out the best in a man.”

“Then you would admit that maybe there is some
good
in Harvey Lang?” Adele asked.

“I would not have thought it, but yes, maybe so,” Sam replied.

Adele smiled. “That's all I wanted to know.” She sounded satisfied with the Ranger's answer. As she turned to leave, she stopped and said, “They say the girl had stolen a man's money . . . ?”

“So they say,” Sam replied. He watched Adele shake her head, open the front door and close it behind herself.

From the wall, Toy Johnson, appearing relieved to see the Ranger fully dressed, called out, “Am I to take it you found a woman stuck in the public ditch out back of town? She robbed somebody?”

Sam picked up his rifle from against the chair and sat down, again placing it across his lap.

“So they say,” he repeated.

“She made one hell of a getaway,” Carnes threw in.

“A young dove named Anna Rose,” Sam said, ignoring Carnes' joke. “She's beat up awfully bad. My hunch is someone thought they'd killed her, threw her in the public ditch to get rid of her.”

“In the public ditch. . . .” Johnson pondered the thought with a look of disgust on his face. “They could have had the decency to make sure she was dead first.”

“Yeah,” Carnes said. “That's as low as anything I've ever heard. I've been the worst, rottenest, meanest no-good bastard on three legs,” he continued. “I've done every terrible thing a man can do, robbed, killed, looted, burned down barns—” He caught himself and looked at the Ranger. “Not really, although I have
imagined
myself doing all that at one time or another,” he said. “But I would never even have
thought
of doing something that low down.”

“Neither would I,” Johnson said. He rubbed his jaw, considering the matter. “Although you have to admit, if you didn't want to drag somebody out of town and leave them for the critters . . .” He let his words trail.

The Ranger only watched and listened as the two discussed the matter. He was grateful for another knock on the front door. Dr. Starr opened the door a crack and looked in with his good eye.

“Coming in, Ranger,” Starr said. “There's some workers coming along behind me, carrying some iron bars for the jail cell.”

“That's good news, Doctor. Come on in,” Sam said. He stood and looked past the doctor at a wagon rolling slowly up the street, three men in leather aprons sitting in the bed atop a load of wood and iron bars.

“I would have been here sooner,” the doctor said, leather bag in hand, a bottle of rye under his arm, “but I took care of the young woman first.”

“I understand,” Sam said. He gestured a hand toward the two prisoners seated against the wall. “Here they are, Doctor, one with a shoulder wound, one with a bullet stuck in his hip.”

Carnes and Johnson leered at the bottle under the doctor's arm.

“All right, then, Ranger, may I have some clean water?” the short, one-eyed doctor said, setting his bag down, his sleeves still rolled up from caring for Anna Rose. “Who wants to be first?” he said to the two wounded gunman.

“Here you go,” said Carnes, standing attentively.

“Right here, Doctor, I'm hurt worst,” said Johnson, struggling onto his feet.

They watched the doctor take the bottle from under his arm, take a long drink from it, cork it and set it aside in a manner that suggested he wasn't going to share it.

“Go ahead, then,” Carnes said to Johnson, sitting back down against the wall.

Chapter 15

When the doctor had cleaned and prepared and finally probed deep into the bleeding flesh to remove the half of a bullet lodged deep into Toy Johnson's hip, he set down his tongs and wiped his bloody hands on a towel. Then he picked up the bottle of rye and pulled the cork from it again.

While Dr. Starr had worked on the wound, the Ranger stood by at one end of the desk where the gunman lay sleeping under the influence of chloroform the doctor had administered to him. Should the chloroform wear off, Sam's job would be to hold the gunman down and press the cloth over his nose and mouth to put him back to sleep.

Setting the bottle of rye aside, Starr spoke to the Ranger as he picked up the tongs again and bent over Johnson's wound.

“You might be interested to know, this is not the first bullet I've cut out of some knot-head today, Ranger,” he said. His one good eye slid away from Johnson to the Ranger, but only for a second.

“You don't say,” Sam replied.

“I sure do,” said Starr, probing back into the wound with his pointed tongs. “This was a bunch camped outside town. They had a fight between two of their own. One of them came and got me. A dwarf put two bullets into a big ol' scrappy fellow named Reye—leastwise he
said
his name is Reye. You never know with discards like these. They looked like they'd steal the coins off a dead man's eyes.”

“Reye, huh?” Sam said. He ran the name through his mind. “Chic Reye, was it?”

“Yep, I believe it was Chic Reye,” Starr said. “The one who came and got me was Dave Coyle.”

The Ranger looked at him more intently. The doctor continued probing into the open wound with a pair of long, slim tongs. Carnes watched beside the iron ball with a sick look on his face.

“He had a brother, this Dave fellow,” the doctor said. “But his name is different—stepbrothers, I suspect. Said his name is Joe North . . . or was it Jonas? I can't recall.”

“Either one will do,” Sam said. He looked at Randall Carnes. “You know anything about the Coyle brothers being around here?”

“No,” said Carnes. “But I expect it stands to reason if we heard about the bounty, so did they.”

“Bounty?” the doctor asked.

“It's nothing, Doctor,” Sam said. “Just a reward some railroad man put on my head.”

“
Nothing
, huh?” The doctor glanced up at him. “Just a reward on your head, men wanting to kill you? All right, then . . .” He gave a dismissing shrug. But before Sam could reply, he said, “Peculiar thing about that name
Joe North.
It's the name the dove from the ditch kept saying over and over while I treated her . . . unconscious, of course.”

Sam just stared at him, connecting the name Joe North to Oldham Coyle. From what he knew about Oldham Coyle, he was not the kind of man to harm a woman.
But things change,
he told himself.

“Where are they camped?” he asked the doctor.

“North is south of here,” the doctor said. He gave a grin for his witticism. “Pardon me, Ranger. This is a long day for me, plucking out bullets.” He nodded southerly. “They're not more than three miles out.”

The clanking of heavy boots walking on the boardwalk resounded from out front. One of the men from the wagon in a leather apron stood in the open doorway.

“We've got jail bars to hang here,” the man said. “Anybody object to us doing that?”

“No, not at all,” Sam said. “Come on in and go to work.”

“Thank you, Ranger,” said the carpenter. “We'll be in and out of here before you know it.”

As the carpenters went to work, the Ranger watched Dr. Starr finish with Toy Johnson and bandage his hip. As the doctor reached for his bottle of rye, Sam helped the staggering, half-conscious gunman off the desk, back to the iron ball, and cuffed him. Johnson slid down the wall with the Ranger's help and sprawled back against it as Carnes stood up to be uncuffed and led to the desk for treatment.

“Doctor,” Carnes said, seeing the doctor lower the rye bottle from his lips, “wouldn't a good stiff drink benefit me right now, before you give me that knockout water?” He gestured to the small bottle of chloroform sticking up from the leather bag.

“Not as much as it might
benefit
the rest of the world,” Starr said dryly.

“Huh?” said Carnes.

“It would likely kill you, is what I'm saying,” Starr replied.

“
Likely . . . ?
” said Carnes. “Meaning, there's always a chance it wouldn't?”

“Forget it,” said Starr, reaching for the bottle of chloroform.

From the street, Cisco Lang walked in, handcuffed, bathed and wearing his own clean but damp clothing. His boots were still noticeably wet from a good scrubbing. Behind him Deputy Clow Dankett walked in wearing his own clean but damp clothes as well, carrying his long-barreled shotgun at his side.

“Sorry we took so long, Ranger,” Dankett said. A smell of lilac water permeated the air around him. “You just can't rush clothes drying, especially when the wind's down.”

“I understand,” the Ranger said.

The two walked Lang over to the iron ball while a carpenter measured out a line on the plank floor.

“The injured dove woke up a little before we left,” Dankett said as he reached out to cuff Cisco Lang back to the heavy ball. “But nobody made any sense out of her before she fell back asleep.”

“I want the man who did this,” Sam said. He reached out and stopped the deputy from snapping Lang's cuff to the chain on the ball.

“No more than I do, Ranger Burrack,” Dankett said. “I want to thump upon his head over and over 'til his brains bleed out his ears.” As he revealed his violet fantasy, he stared coldly into Lang's eyes. Lang stepped back uncomfortably against the plank wall and swallowed hard.

“Ranger, I was with you the whole time,” he said.

“He knows that, Cisco,” Sam said, seeing Lang's fear of the deputy. To Dankett he said, “When the doctor's through, we're going to leave Carnes and Johnson cuffed to the ball. I want you and Lang to ride outside town with me. I'm going to talk to a man named Oldham Coyle.” As he spoke, he slid Lang a look, recalling what Lang had said at the Desert Rose about how fast Coyle was with a gun—how he would bet a hundred dollars on Coyle should he and the Ranger ever meet.

“Oldham Coyle, here?” Lang ventured.

“Yep, I believe so,” said Sam. He gave Lang a harsh stare. “Don't you wish you had a hundred dollars?”

“Ranger, I shouldn't have said that,” Lang said, shame-faced.

“Said what?” Dankett wanted to know, a harsh look coming to his eyes, staring at Lang.

“Nothing to it, Deputy,” Sam said, defusing Dankett. “Lang here was warning me a while back, how fast Coyle is with gun. But if he was with this Anna Rose, I want to talk to him first thing.”

Lang looked relieved that the Ranger withheld the whole story from Dankett.

“Can I say something, Ranger?” he asked.

Sam looked at him.

“From what I know of Oldham Coyle, he's not the kind of man who would do something like this. Being honest, I don't know many men who would.”

“I'll keep that in mind, Cisco,” Sam said. He looked Lang up and down and said almost grudgingly, “I'm obliged for your help out there.”

“I had no choice,” Lang said, rattling his cuffs.

“You know what I mean, Cisco,” Sam said. “I took note. You could have made it harder on us. Instead you helped out. It appeared you might even have cared what happened to the poor young woman.”

“Did it?” He gave a thin grin and shrugged. “Well . . . it wasn't like we were being shot at,” Lang offered. “I figure I could always—”

“Keep it up,” Sam said, cutting him short. “You'll convince me I was wrong thinking you might have the slimmest thread of decency.”

“Yeah,” said Dankett, not reading Lang's actions the way Sam read them, “and I bet I can wipe that grin from under your nose, take part of your chin with it.” He gripped his shotgun, ready to swing the butt of it into Lang's face.

“Easy, Deputy,” Sam said. “Why did you do it, Cisco?” he asked Lang.

“All right, I'll come clean,” Lang said, seeing cruel craziness in Dankett's eyes. He let out a breath. “I helped because I have a sister who become a dove—or
had
a sister by now . . . far as I know.” He looked away.

“It was looking for her that brought me west. I searched and searched for her, never found her. Never knew what become of her.” He paused and chuffed, looking down at his cuffed hands. “All I know is what become of me.” He took a deep breath, let it out, raised his face and looked at Sam. “Anyway, that's my sad story, Ranger. Think the judge would listen to it?”

“You never know,” Sam replied. “It all depends on who your judge is. Some judges listen better than others.”

“I never had much luck drawing judges,” Lang said.

“Then you are gored deep,” Dankett said in a black tone. He gave him a sharp, menacing grin, grabbed the short chain to Lang's cuffs and jerked him forward. “Come on, Sad Story, let's go get the horses.”

Sam watched the two walk out the front door and around toward the livery barn.

“Deputy Dankett is loco top to bottom, Ranger, in case you haven't noticed,” the doctor said as soon as Dankett and Lang were outside, out of hearing.

“He takes some getting used to,” Sam said, repeating what Sheriff Rattler had told him about the deputy.

•   •   •

On the desert floor, seated beside a stand of rock fifteen yards from a ragged canvas lean-to, Blind Simon Goss stood in the waning afternoon sunlight and lifted his head toward the trail leading out to New Delmar. Karl Sieg, Deak Holder and Dave Coyle watched from beside the campfire as he cocked his head slightly, sunlight glittering sharply on his black spectacle lenses. Oldham Coyle saw him as he stepped from under the canvas, a plate of beans in one hand, a spoon in the other.

“What's this?” Oldham asked no one in particular. Behind Oldham beneath the overhang, Chic Reye sat up on his blanket with a hand pressed to his bandaged stomach and stared out with everyone else.

“Riders coming,” Simon called out. “Three riders, moving at a gallop.”

The three men at the fire stood and stared in the direction of New Delmar until a rise of dust drifted up along the trail. Without a word, they instinctively spread out in a half circle and stepped toward the trail.

“Good work, Simon,” Oldham said. He took a large mouthful of beans and chewed them as he set the tin plate and spoon down and picked up his gun belt.

While his brother swung the gun belt around his waist and buckled it, Dave Coyle turned to Karl Sieg, who stood holding his rifle.

“Get up in the rocks, Karl,” he said. “Let us know what we've got as soon as they ride into sight. It could be travelers passing by.”

Outside the overhang, Oldham straightened from tying down his holster. He'd drawn his bone-handled Colt, checked it and slipped it loosely back into his holster when he heard Reye call out.

“Boss,” the wounded gunman said in a pained voice, his face swollen from the bullet through his cheek. “Come look at this. My navel is turning black.”

“
Jesus . . . ,
” Oldham said under his breath. Raising his lowered voice, he said to Reye, “Not now, Chic, we got riders coming.”

“Boss, I'm not lying,” Reye said, sounding even more in pain. “I'm turning black all around my belly.”

Oldham heard the first rumble of distant hooves on the hard, rocky ground. He walked back under the overhang and stooped down beside Reye. He looked at the sore, swollen wound in Reye's navel as Reye pulled the bandage aside.

“Damn it, Chic,” he said. “The doctor said leave the bandage alone. “You're not doing like he told you.”

“I loosened it because my belly's turning black,” said Reye. “I'm telling you this is not right. Is my face turning black too?”

Oldham looked closely at Reye's wounded cheek, around the edge of the bandage covering it. It was turning a sickly greenish black, but Oldham didn't want to tell him while the sound of hooves drew nearer.

“No, your face is all right,” he said. Looking down at Reye's navel, he frowned and looked back up. “But your belly don't look so good.”

“I've got the infection,” Reye said. “That little bastard pisses on his bullets, makes them poison.”

“That's crazy talk, Reye,” said Oldham. He saw the heavy sheen of sweat on Reye's forehead, beads of it running down his face like tears.

“No, they do that, these dwarves! I've heard of it,” he said, enraged. “Help me to my feet, boss,” he groaned, struggling to stand up. “If I'm going to die, I'm taking the little murdering son of a—”