Lawless Trail (11 page)

Claypool smiled to himself. It was time he'd signaled Wes Traybo anyway, he decided. Taking an aim on the trail below, he spaced three signal shots close together. The first two shots hit the dirt only inches from the posse man's toes. Before the man could jump back quick enough, the third shot nailed his left foot dead center.

“That'll keep everybody busy for a while,” Claypool said to himself, watching the rifleman hurriedly limp away, dragging his bleeding foot back into the shadowed cover of the trail.

As quiet as a ghost, Claypool walked back up to his horse, slipped up into the saddle and put the horse forward behind the cover of the towering cliff.

The Ranger had spotted Dallas Garand and his posse an hour earlier in the grainy morning light, as the Ranger and Hardaway rode up off the flatlands and stopped on an old game trail. Looking out across a deep valley at another trail known for leading onto a winding route to the Mexican border, they saw detectives and townsmen alike moving along at a fast pace, their duster tails flapping out behind them.

“Garand reasoned things out and turned back quicker than I expected he would,” the Ranger said, backing his speckled barb into a lingering slice of morning trail shadow.

“We could still beat them to the Mexico trail fork if you want to push it,” Hardaway offered.

The Ranger looked at him.

“I don't want to push it,” the Ranger replied. “It's going to be a long day for them if one of their horses comes up lame or, worse, runs off the side of a hill.”

“I've done it more than once,” said Hardaway. “It's risky, but it's better than—” He caught himself and stopped.

“You did it because you had to,” Sam said. “There's nobody chasing us, Hardaway. You keep forgetting we're not the ones on the run.”

Hardaway looked embarrassed. “I'm just saying, we can get on the Traybos' trail before they do—if we want to, that is.”

“I understand,” said Sam. “We'll make up time once we've got some better light. He watched the posse men move out of sight around a turn in the distant trail. Then he put the barb forward, Hardaway right beside him.

“I'm just trying to get us ahead of the game, Ranger,” Hardaway said, trying to sound restless. “The quicker we catch up to the Traybos, the quicker I can get my money in Cottonwood and put all this behind me.”

“We both know this is the same trail we'd be riding to the border whether we'd come across the Traybos' robbery or not,” said Sam.

Hardaway fell silent for a second.

“Does it make any difference if it is?” he asked after a thoughtful pause.

“Not a bit,” the Ranger replied. “Right now I've got the Traybos' trail. But if I lose it, I'll still need you to take me to their hideout. Either way, your money's still coming to you. There's no tricks here. You're just not used to people giving their word and meaning it.”

Hardaway relaxed and pushed up his hat brim.

“You're right,” he said.

The two rode on in silence for the next half hour until morning sunlight had risen enough to warm and reveal more clearly the rocky hill trails. As they reached the end of the deep canyon and started around it toward the trail the posse men were on, rifle fire erupted in the near distance, causing them to quicken their horses' pace.

“Sounds like Garand just caught up with the Traybos,” Hardaway said as they rode along.

“Lucky him,” the Ranger said wryly, drawing his rifle from its boot as he urged the barb forward. “From the sound of it, there's only one rifle in the fray. It's not one of Garand's men. I'd say they're in big trouble.”

On the trail, Dallas Garand stood out from behind a tree as the Ranger and Hardaway rode into sight and reined their horses down to a halt. They stopped a ways back from where the rest of the men were still taking cover behind rocks alongside the trail. Garand hurried forward in a crouch as they stepped down from their saddles and walked toward him.

“Get your head down, both of you!” Garand ordered. “Unless you want to get it blown off.”

Sam and Hardaway ignored him. They stopped and scanned the hill line high above the trail.

“I haven't heard any gunfire the past few minutes,” the Ranger said. “My guess is whoever was doing the shooting is gone.”

Garand straightened a little, then a little more as he turned and looked up with the Ranger.

“I don't need you riding in to tell me that,” Garand growled, reluctantly standing up straight. The rest of the posse men stood up and backed away, looking upward with trepidation along the high ridgeline.

“Unless you've killed the shooter, he's going to be sniping at you the rest of the way into Mexico,” Sam offered.

“Oh? You suppose so?” Garand said in a sarcastic tone.

Seeing the detective leader's surly attitude, the Ranger touched his hat brim and said to Garand, “Sorry to have interfered.” He looked at Hardaway and said, “Let's ride on up, get on this shooter's trail before he sets up and strikes again.”

Dallas Garand watched the two turn back toward their horses. Behind him the townsmen had separated themselves from the detectives and formed a tight frightened-looking group.

“Wait a minute, Ranger,” Garand called out. “You mean you're going to ride up there—up this hillside after him?”

The Ranger stopped and looked around at Garand.

“I see no choice. He's not going to come down here to us,” he said.

“I know this shooter,” Fatch Hardaway cut in. “He won't stop until the lot of you are lying dead.”

The Ranger gave Hardaway a silencing frown. But it was too late. The townsmen looked at each with fearful eyes. Garand saw it too and cursed under his breath.

“I am not in the least surprised that the man is a
friend
of yours,
Fatcharack—
” he said, bristling.

“I warned you not to call me that again,” Fatch said, cutting him off, taking a step forward. Sam held an arm out, stopping him, seeing Garand's detectives starting to draw into a half circle around them.

“But these men from Maley are not afraid,” Garand continued in a grandiose voice. He raised a finger for emphasis. “They are driven to bring these cowards to justice.” He looked around at the townsmen. “Isn't that right, men?”

“Hell
no
, it's not right,” the cattle broker Don Stout said, emboldened by the Ranger's presence. He stepped forward, rifle in hand, his face crusted with trail dust and sweat. “You've dragged us through these hills and valleys all night—gotten two of us killed and one of us wounded—”

“Let me remind you that only my detectives are the ones lying dead or wounded,” said Garand, cutting him off.

“So far it has been your men,” said Stout. “So this is a good time for us to go home, while we're still wearing our hide.”

“Just like that? You're going to cut and run?” Garand said, hoping to shame the men.

A cattle pens worker named Mose Pullet stepped forward carrying a well-worn Spencer rifle.

“It'd be different if we were making any headway,” he said. “The way it looks is all we've done is ride half the night one way, then half the night back.” He turned to the Ranger and said, “Where'd you go, Ranger Burrack? How'd you know to pick up this trail?”

Sam wasn't going to lie to defend the detective leader.

“We rode back to Maley,” he said. “We believe the Traybos and the doctor went back there, treated the wounded man and rode on. That's what put us on this trail.”

“Bull!”
Garand shouted. But he looked stunned. “The Traybos would not have dared show their faces back in Maley! They know we would have killed them!” His face reddened at his foolishness as soon as he finished his words.

“That's why they led you so far up toward the Old Mexico Trail before they circled back, Garand,” the Ranger said. “I don't know whose idea it was to go back to Maley. But it was a good one.”

Garand stood dumbfounded.

The Ranger turned and looked at the frightened and haggard townsmen.

“You townsmen are volunteers. If you want to leave, nobody's going to stop you,” he said, looking at Stout as he spoke to the group. “Get your horse and ride out.”

“Just a damn minute, Ranger,” said Folliard, eager to get back in good graces with his boss. “You don't waltz in here giving orders to Mr. Garand's posse—”

“Let these cowards go, Detective Folliard,” Garand said, cutting him off. “We're better off without them.” He turned his eyes to the Ranger and said, “There, they're leaving with no trouble out of me. Satisfied?”

The Ranger didn't answer. He and Hardaway stood watching as the Maley townsmen stepped quickly to the horses and began mounting. But Folliard wasn't through yet. He moved in close and faced the Ranger from only three feet away. He tapped a finger to a welt across his forehead the shape of a rifle butt.

“Ranger, I understand you're the son of a bitch who butt-smacked me across the forehead,” he said.

“Whoa! Bad idea,” said Hardaway with a dark, thin chuckle. He swung his rifle around toward the other detectives in anticipation.

The Ranger ignored the insult and looked past Folliard to Garand.

“We don't have time for this,” he said quietly to Garand. “Are you going to call him off?” As Sam spoke, the Maley townsmen turned their horses and filed past them toward the trail back to town.

Seeing part of his posse leave, Garand gave a slight shrug.

“You did give him quite a nasty whack, Ranger,” he said.

Sam stared into Folliard's bloodshot eyes, the cloth gone from around his jawline now, his face showing its bruises and welts.

“Why don't you stop this while you're still on your feet, Detective?” he said quietly, letting Folliard see him brace his rifle in both hands.

“Don't think you're going to catch me off guard with that rifle butt again,” Folliard said. He stood in defiance, in a fighting stance, his feet shoulder width apart. He turned his head sideways and spat on the ground in contempt. “I don't get tricked twice,” he growled. “I'm no damn fool.”

“I can see that,” said the Ranger. Yet even as he spoke, he feigned a quick, short jerk on his rifle, just enough to draw Folliard's attention to it. Folliard instinctively flinched and ducked his head away.

Hardaway, Garand and all the gathered detectives winced in unison at the sight and sound of the Ranger's boot toe burying itself up deep into Folliard's crotch.

“Whoa!”
Hardaway said again, this time as Folliard lifted high on his tiptoes, jackknifed at the waist and landed on his side in the dirt, his hands cupping himself. “I felt that all the way over here!” said Hardaway, his rifle covering the detective as the men stared as if in agony at their fallen comrade.

“If you'll keep your men in check, Garand,” the Ranger said in an unchanged tone of voice, “Hardaway and I will get up the hillside, see if we can keep the Traybos' shooter from killing any more of you.”

Without reply Garand stepped back and gestured a gloved hand toward the rocky hillside. He stood watching as the Ranger and Hardaway led their horses up a steep game path and into the rocks on the hillside.

In the dirt, Folliard groaned and reached a seeking hand up for Rio DeSpain—
Spanish Rivers, the rotten son of a bitch
—to help him to his feet, but DeSpain only gave him a sour look and stepped over him to Garand's side. Fain Elliot and L. C. McGuire stood watching Folliard drawn up and writhing in a ball of pain. Earl Prew stood on his wounded, thickly bandaged foot, using his rifle as a crutch.

“I can't help you, Folliard,” said Prew. “Hell, I can't help myself.”

Finally Elliot and McGuire looked at each other, stepped in and pulled Folliard to his feet. Folliard stood bowed at the waist.

“We don't have to take this, Mr. Garand,” DeSpain said. “Say the word and I'll put a bullet in both their backs before they reach the top of the hill.”

“No, no, Rio,” said Garand. “Leave them be for now. They'll take us to the Traybos. Let them be our shield between the Traybos' shooter and ourselves. After that, if he hasn't killed them, we will. Either way, they're both graveyard dead.” He looked Folliard up and down and said to Elliot and McGuire, “Fain, L.C., straighten this jackass up. I won't have a man bowed over like his guts are on fire.”

Folliard let out a painful wail as the two gunmen yanked him upright by his shoulders.

“Let's get ready to move out,” said Garand, walking away toward his horse.

•   •   •

Atop the steep path, standing on a bald cliff, the Ranger looked down at the hoof marks and boot prints the two had been following for the past twenty yards. They had first found the lone boot prints at the spot where Carter Claypool had lain against the rock and calmly killed two men from a remarkable distance. Even more remarkable, Claypool had directed a round through a third gunman's foot.

Now, gazing out along the trail atop the cliff in the direction the hoofprints on the ground indicated, the Ranger considered the masterful shooting as he scanned the thin trail ahead.

“We best get off this cliff, Ranger,” Hardaway said, also looking around, but doing so in a wary manner. “We're sitting ducks here, as good as Claypool is with rifle.”

“As good as this man is, we're sitting ducks from anywhere in his sights,” Sam replied. On his gloved palm he bounced an empty cartridge brass he'd found down by the rock. “But a good trail scout never stays too long away from the ones he's protecting. Don't forget he's got the trail in front of them to keep an eye on too.” He paused, then added as he closed his hand around the empty cartridge, “And in this case, that trail runs straight into Mexico.”