Lawless Trail (22 page)

Hardaway considered it.

“Wait here and shoot him when he rides into range,” he said with finality.

“Like I said, he's
not
carrying sacks of money,” said Claypool. “Did you see any money sacks on his horse? No, you didn't,” he added before Hardaway could say anything. “Sending you up here with that message, he's set himself to ride into our midst without us being able to kill him. He's got sand, I'll give him that.”

“So what do we do?” said Hardaway. “I suppose I could turn this horse loose and send it off in the wrong direction. Ride double with you the rest of the way?”

“No, I don't think so,” said Claypool. “Besides, I've got some detectives dogging our back trail. I'm not going after them with you hanging on behind my saddle.”

“Maybe I can help?” Hardaway said.

“Maybe you can at that,” said Claypool. “We'll get rid of these detectives. Then we'll deal with the Ranger. First let's put some miles between him and us. If he wants into our neck of the woods so bad,” he added, “let's let him in. If he's got our money, we'll get it from him and kill him.” He gave Hardaway a grave look. “If it turns out you're lying and he doesn't have our money, I don't have to tell you where that puts you.”

“You'll see I'm not lying, soon as we get to the Traybos,” Hardaway said, the two of them turning, walking back to their horses.

Three miles off the main trail, at the end of a path winding through the narrow jaws of a stone canyon, the Traybos, Baylor Rubens, the doctor and Rosetta had stepped down from their horses and into a cabin constructed of log, clay and stone. Allowing Ty to walk on his own, the doctor and the woman remained close at hand and followed him to a bed in a room off to the side. The doctor pulled fresh gauze and ties from his medical satchel as Wes stepped in behind them and tossed both of the trail-worn canvas sacks into a corner.

“I want to see you both out here when you're done,” he said, nodding toward the other room. Then he turned and walked out.

In the front room he stepped quietly over to a corner cabinet built into the wall and reached inside. He glanced back at Rubens, who was down on his knees in front of the hearth.

Rubens had taken logs from a pile of firewood stacked against the wall, and he shoved them back deep into the heath's blackened mouth.

“We've never brought outsiders here before,” he said over his shoulder to Wes Traybo as Wes walked over and stood back watching him start a fire.

“Are you questioning my judgment again, Baylor?” Wes asked in a firm tone.

“Not questioning it,” Baylor replied. “I'm just wondering what your thinking was behind doing it, is all.” He took a long hearth match from a wooden box, struck it and held it under some dried kindling already nested in the hearth.

“That's the same thing, Baylor,” said Wes.

“I didn't mean it to be,” Rubens said, straightening a little, watching the fire take hold in the kindling and flare up to feed on the dry pine bark. “But you have to admit it's damn risky,” he added.

“Don't worry about them being here,” Wes said. “There's a reason why it's not risky. We won't have to worry about them ever telling anybody.”

Rubens thought about it, his eyes staring into the growing, spreading flames.

“You don't mean we're going to . . . ?” His words trailed.

“Would you do that, if I asked you to?” Wes asked quietly.

Rubens rubbed his palms nervously on his thighs. He swallowed a dry knot in his throat, staring into the flame.

“I—I think I need a drink,
real
bad,” he said, instead of answering.

“I figured you might say that,” Wes said. “Turn around. I've got something for you.”

Rubens turned slowly, uncertain of what to expect. But then his eyes widened at the sight of Wes standing before him holding out a full bottle of rye whiskey.

“Lord yes!” he said, grabbing the bottle from Wes' hand. “Much obliged, Wes. Thank you, Jesus,” he said, lifting his eyes heavenward. He hurriedly pulled the cork, palmed it and raised the bottle high in a long, gurgling drink.

As he lowered the bottle, he let out a deep hiss and asked, “Will you be drinking with me? You deserve a good swig. We
all
do after this run
.
”
He glanced around, used to Bugs Trent being nearby.

“Don't mind if I do, Baylor,” Wes said, taking the bottle.

“I mean no offense, questioning you just now,” Rubens offered, taking the bottle back after Wes had taken a swig. “And I know you mean no harm to come to the doc and Rosetta.”

“You're right. I mean them no harm,” Wes said. He watched Rubens take another deep swig, lower the bottle and wipe a hand over his lips. He looked up curiously at Traybo.

“So . . . what did you mean, then?” he said.

“I meant, we won't be here if anybody shows up looking for us,” Wes said. “There's too many people getting too close to our lair.” He lowered his voice. “As soon as Ty's strength is up, we're shedding the place for good.”

“For good?” Rubens looked up at him.

“Yep, for good,” Wes said. “I'm thinking my brother and I might quit the business, move far away from here. Maybe we'll pull together a ranch up in the north country.”

Rubens gave him a despondent look.

“I don't know nothing but robbing,” he said.

“Come with us, learn the cattle business,” Wes said.

“I hate cattle something awful,” said Rubens. “So does my horse.” He pointed toward the other room. “Hell, Ty hates cattle. I've heard him say it.”

“That's just one thing we can do, Rubens,” Wes said. “It doesn't have to be a cattle ranch. It could be something else.”

But the thought had stuck in Rubens' mind. He took another swig and gazed off in consideration.

“Cattle ranching,” he murmured, shaking his head with a sad look on his weathered face. “I don't know how I'm going to tell my horse.”

“Look at me, Baylor,” Wes said. “You've ridden with us a long time. We've had the best of it—robbing banks, trains, anything else that suited us. We lived lives most men envy.”

“Damn right we have.” Rubens gave a proud grin.

“But we were never killers,” Wes continued. “Now we are. We've crossed a line I never wanted to cross. It's time we back away from it and do something else. You're welcome to come along, whatever we do.”

“If it's time to get out . . . I'll get out,” he said. He tipped the bottle toward Wes as if in a toast. “Here's to what it was,” he said. Then he took another long deep swig.

Rubens and Wes both looked around at Dr. Bernard as the doctor stepped into the room. The woman followed him inside, shutting the door.

“Your brother, Ty, is doing much better,” the doctor said. “Apparently running gunfights must agree with him.”

“I might say the same for you, Doc,” said Wes. He looked at the woman, who stopped and stood beside the doctor. “You too, Rosetta. As hostages go, I couldn't have done better.”

The two just looked at him.

Wes drew the same leather pouch of gold coins he'd been carrying inside his coat. Then he drew another pouch he'd taken from a hiding place in the corner cabinet when he'd gotten Rubens a bottle of whiskey.

“These are for you,” he said, stepping forward and holding the pouches out to them.

Rosetta took the pouch and held it to her bosom. The doctor started to speak, but Wes stopped him.

“Doctor, you've been tougher than a pine knot. You've saved my brother's life. You fought for us when the odds were stacked against us. But now it's time for you to go home. If you stick with us any longer, you'll lose your way out.”

Dr. Bernard took a deep breath and let it out.

“Yes, I understand,” he said. He gripped the pouch and hefted it in his hand. He started to protest that it was entirely too much, but Wes Traybo gave him a look that invited no argument on the matter.

Rosetta quickly put the pouch inside her clothes.

“
Gracias
, Wes Traybo,” she said, “for hiring me to take care of your brother and for allowing me to return to my people. I am no longer a
puta.
”

“You never were, far as I'm concerned,” said Traybo. “You had to play the hand dealt to you.” He turned to the doctor. “Now get out of here, both of you. Once you're out, forget your way back, for a few days anyway.”

Rosetta turned toward the door to the room where Ty was resting in bed.

“I must say good-bye to Ty first,” she said. She started to turn, but Wes stopped her.

“No,” he said, knowing now that Ty was getting better, he would never want her to leave. “I'll tell him good-bye for you.”

“Come, Rosetta, let's be on our way,” the doctor said. He looked at Wes and nodded good-bye, then turned with his satchel on his shoulder and led the woman toward the front door.

Wes watched from the front window as the two departed toward the stone canyon. Before they rode out of sight, he saw the doctor stop his horse all of a sudden, jump down from his saddle and run to a pine standing beside the trail. The doctor bowed against the tree, resting one hand on it, and vomited profusely on the ground at his feet.

Wes smiled thinly to himself. He watched the doctor wipe his lips on a handkerchief on his way back to his horse, step up into his saddle and continue on.

“Tough as a pine knot,” he repeated to himself.

When Wes turned around, he found Ty at the door to the other room staring at him.

“Rosetta and the doc are gone?” he asked, gazing past his brother, trying to see out the window.

“Yep, I sent them away,” said Wes. “You don't need any more nursing. It'll spoil you.”

“Yeah, but damn,” said Ty, supporting himself against the doorjamb, “I never got to know her, not in the way I wanted to.”

“Yes, you did,” Wes said. “She did what needed doing, and you got to know her as much as you needed to. Anyway, she's got family waiting for her in Guatemala. There's no place for her with us.” He walked back to where Rubens sat, watching everything, a glazed, whiskey look on his face.

“Are you going to hog that bottle, Baylor, or share some of it with your pards?” he said.

•   •   •

Riding at a quick clip, feeling pressed to put more miles between themselves and the Ranger, Claypool and Hardaway reached the main trail and turned onto it without slowing down. Doing so was a mistake, one that Claypool realized a second too late as the sound of rifle fire exploded on the hillside above them.

A barrage of bullets sliced through the air around them; before Claypool could get his rifle raised, his dun whinnied in pain and went down beneath him. At the same time, two bullets hit Claypool, one in his side and one in his chest. Beside him, Hardaway took a bullet that knocked him out of his saddle and sent him rolling off the edge of the trail. He caught himself and crawled back up and returned fire. But in the middle of the trail, Claypool was in big trouble.

A hard volley of rifle fire erupted as he struggled to his feet and tried to run to his downed horse. The horse lay center-trail on its side, screaming pitifully, flailing its hooves.

Another bullet hit Claypool as he dived atop the badly wounded animal and spread his arms wide as if to protect it. Blood spewed up from the horse's side and splattered down on man and animal alike.

“No, Charlie Smith!” Claypool shouted, seeing where the mud packing had fallen from the graze on the horse's rump from his run-in with the banditos at the water hole. “What have I go you into!” he shouted, hugging the horse, his rifle gone from his hands and lying fifteen feet away in the trail.

“Kill that son of a bitch!” Dallas Garand shouted from ten yards up the rocky hillside, having managed to track them there and lie waiting above them in ambush. Hardaway returned fire as the barrage of rifle fire filled the air again. But even as he fired, he saw Claypool buck and twist as bullet after bullet sliced into him. When he saw that neither Claypool nor his dun was reacting to the continued sting of hot lead slicing through them, he crawled backward down from the edge of the trail, leaving a smear of blood in the dirt.

On the hillside Garand stood in a haze of looming gun smoke and waved an arm back and forth to Fain Elliot and Artimus Folliard. Beside him stood L. C. McGuire.

“Stop firing. He's dead,” Garand said. He took a fresh cigar out of his inside lapel pocket and stuck it in his mouth. He looked down at Claypool lying stretched out atop the dead horse. “You two get down there, finish off Hardaway.” Under his breath, he said, “I knew that son of a bitch was with them.” He turned to McGuire and said, “L.C., follow me.”

He positioned his rifle back over his shoulder and walked up the hillside to where they had left their horses, Rio DeSpain holding the animals' reins in case they needed to make a fast getaway.

Elliot and Folliard stood up, looked at each other and started down the hillside through brush and over rock. They looked back and forth along the edge of the trail where they'd seen Hardaway firing at them.

“Come out, come out,
Fatcharack
Hardaway,” Elliot called out in a dark laugh. “I will make your thumb into a watch fob.”

“Speaking of thumbs,” said Folliard, “Claypool's is all mine. He also took my Starr pistol. . . . I'm taking it back if it's on him.”

“Suit yourself,” said Elliot, stepping out onto the trail and walking across it, his rifle pointed at the far edge where they'd seen Hardaway. He called out, “If you make me track you down, it'll go harder on you.” As Elliot approached the edge of the trail, Folliard veered away and walked to where Claypool lay sprawled facedown, the back of his bloody coat riddled with bullets.

He took Claypool by his wrist and turned him over, off the horse's side.

“There's my Starr,” he said, seeing the big revolver stuck behind Claypool's belt. He grabbed the gun, held it up and looked it over with a proud smile on his still battered but healing face.

But suddenly his smile froze as bullet after bullet from Claypool's short-barreled Colt ripped upward into his chest, pitching him backward. The fourth shot entered just beneath his cheek and sent a gout of blood and brain matter exploding in the air.