Marauders' Moon (11 page)

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.

Webb cursed himself. He was in enough of a jam without leaping to the defense of a girl he had seen only twice in his life, and who was the daughter of a man who was persecuting him. If he had expected any favors here, he might as well forget it.

“Who was that man that took him off?”

“Hugo Meeker, the ramrod.”

Webb smoked moodily. Presently Lute said, “What're you here for, son?”

Webb told him the whole story from the time they had met in Wagon Mound. When he was finished, Lute said, “But this train stick-up? Was you in on it or was this a frame-up?”

Webb, who had told his story idly and without much interest, suddenly came to attention, aware of the implications of Lute's question. If he told Lute he was guilty, wasn't there a possibility that Lute might look upon him as one of the fraternity to which he belonged? He hesitated.

“Okay,” Lute said idly. “None of my business.”

Webb smiled. “Hell, yes, I was guilty. Do you think I'd 'a' let them bring me clean over here if I could've helped it.”

“I was wonderin',” Lute said, looking at him.

At this moment, Shorty, who had taken Britt to the bunk house, returned. He sat down beside Lute and glanced over at Webb.

“If I wasn't bein' paid to hold you here, I'd tell you to take a horse and high-tail it,” he told Webb.

Webb spat carelessly.

Then Shorty's attention was shifted. He said to Lute, “Somethin's up around here.”

“Like what?”

“Ain't a rider goin' out this mornin'. They're all around the bunk house, waitin' for orders.”

“Talk to any of 'em?”

“Not me,” Shorty said. “I'm gettin' paid to be a little choosy about who I talk with.”

Lute laughed and they talked of other things. But Webb wondered. Bannister must be expecting trouble of some sort—or planning it. When there was a break in the conversation, he asked idly, “How many hands has Bannister got here?”

“There's about thirty over there now.” Shorty said.

“Doin' what?” Lute wanted to know.

“The last I seen a good half of 'em was leadin' their ponies over to get shod.”

Webb scowled. He was about to suggest having a look when Lute said, “I could stand a drink.”

“Let's go,” Shorty said.

They all went into the
cantina
together. It was a shabby adobe, its shelves lined with cheap wines and whiskies and
tequilas
.

Webb had a drink with Lute and Shorty, and then they moved on up to Mooney's store, where they sat on the broad porch and watched the activity.

The plaza on which the store fronted had a holiday air about it. Riders conversed in several groups and waited while the anvil over in Symonds's blacksmith shop clanged steadily. Webb noticed that the Dollar hands apparently had two duties: to take their horses over to be shod and to drop into Mooney's for shells.

Lute watched it all with mounting curiosity.

“Looks like a fight,” he said once.

“Find out,” Webb suggested.

Lute grunted. But he was only human. After a half hour on Mooney's porch, Lute lounged to his feet, saying to Shorty, “When you see me come out of the
cantina
, come around in back of this place,” and he headed across the plaza.

In a few minutes, he came out of the
cantina
, and Shorty said to Webb, “Walk around in back.”

Lute, when he joined them, had a bottle of
tequila
hidden in his shirt front. He grinned sheepishly at Webb. “I'm goin' to find out what this is all about.”

They ended up at the main horse corral, which was in charge of a Mexican wrangler. The three of them lined up on the top rail and waited for the wrangler to come over to them. He did, eventually, and Lute yarned with him about horses. Already the wrangler had an excellent opinion of these five Montana men who rode such good horses, and he listened to Lute's sage observations with the air of a pupil listening to a master. Lute, still talking, pulled out his bottle of
tequila
, offered Shorty and Webb a drink, which they accepted, and then offered the bottle to the Mexican. He looked around uncomfortably and then said, “Come with me, señor. Me, I'm not s'pose to dreenk.”

Lute laughed and went with him into the barn. They were gone a long time. When Lute finally returned without the bottle, he motioned the others off the fence and when they were safely away, said, “I got it.”

“What is it?” Shorty asked.

“He didn't know for sure. But he thinks there's a raid bein' planned.”

“Hell, I could 'a' guessed that. Where?”

“San Patricio County so the talk goes.”

Webb listened with expressionless face, but he was thinking of what had been told him that night in Tolleston's house.

Then Budrow had somehow learned that these hardcases were working for Bannister, and he had taken the news back to Tolleston. Which meant, if Tolleston's hunch was correct, that the San Patricio ranchers had already banded together for a raid. Was this arming on the part of Bannister a defensive measure?

That afternoon Webb was to find out, for Hugo Meeker came into the bunk house. At his entrance the lackadaisical poker game was suspended.

Hugo, cigarette in lower lips, came to the point immediately. “Noticed all the commotion outside?”

“Uh-huh,” Lute told him.

“It's here,” Hugo said. “Tonight the San Patricio outfit aims to raid Bull Foot, and then the spread here. They don't know we know it. About the time they get deep into Winterin', three quarters of their spreads over there will be burnin'. So will Wagon Mound.”

Lute whistled. “Anything for us to do?” he asked.

“No. If this thing works out, those raiders from across the line will run into a surprise in Bull Foot. They'll be lucky if a fifth of them get out alive. But they aim to raid this spread, too. Now I don't reckon they'll still have that same idea when they leave Bull Foot, but just in case they do, we want to be ready for 'em.”