The Last Trail Drive (15 page)

“Unless what?”

“Unless we resolve the question of who in our camp is working for Morgan.”

“You said you thought it was Dirker.”

“I'm pretty sure, but I need one last piece of evidence.”

“When will you get it?”

“Any time now, hopefully.”

“Let's do this tonight, Clint,” Flood said. “Let's brace him tonight and get it over with.”

“Still doesn't answer our question of who we can leave in charge of the herd.”

“Maybe we can answer all the questions tonight,” Flood said.

“Except the last one,” Clint said.

“That one,” Flood said, “might get answered in Ogallala.”

 

That night Clint and Flood decided not to do anything until after chow. They were eating when they heard the shots. The both jumped to their feet, plates and cups flying. They ran over to where the men were eating. The drovers were all on their feet, but Bud Coleman was the only one holding a gun.

“What the hell happened?” Flood demanded.

Clint saw one man lying on the ground. It was Andy Dirker. He was dying on his back, and Clint could see the bottoms of both boots. He walked over to check the body. Dirker was dead, two holes in his chest. Clint then checked the boots. There was no doubt Dirker's boots had left the marks on the floor of the livery where Jack Trevor had been stabbed to death.

“He did it,” Coleman said. “He killed Jack. They all heard him say so.”

Flood looked around.

“Is that true?” he asked the others.

“We heard Bud accuse him,” Eddie Pratt said.

“Anybody hear Dirker admit it?” Flood asked.

“He's got the mark on his boot,” Clint said.

“He went for his gun,” Swisher said.

“What?” Clint asked.

“I didn't hear him admit to killing Jack, but when Bud braced him Dirker went for his gun. Bud outdrew him slicker'n snot.”

Clint looked over at Roy Sobel.

“What about it, Roy?” he asked. “You know anything about what happened in Doan's Crossing?”

Sobel didn't answer.

“Come on, Roy,” Bud Coleman said. He was still holding his gun.

“Okay, okay,” Sobel said, “I knew somethin' was up in Doan's Crossing but I didn't know what. He went off by himself.”

Flood looked at Clint.

“If he went for his gun when Bud braced him . . .”

“But we don't know if he was working for Morgan or not,” Clint said, so the other men couldn't hear.

“I think Bud did the fight thing,” Flood said.

“Okay,” Clint said.

“Swisher, take some men and bury Dirker. Take whatever personal effects he has and put them in his saddlebags. We'll give it all to the law in Ogallala.” He looked at Coleman. “Bud?”

Bud replaced the empty shells in his gun, holstered it, and followed Clint and Flood back to the chuckwagon.

“What happened?” Clint asked.

“I saw his boot, and like you said, there was that mark. I got mad and accused him of killing Jack. The others didn't hear him, but he said, ‘So what? What are you gonna do about it?' I said I wanted his gun and his knife. He underestimated me and went for his gun. That's it.”

“What about Sobel?” Clint asked.

“He ain't involved at all,” Coleman said. “I'm sure of it.”

Clint looked at Flood.

“Hank, I guess you'll be staying with the herd tomorrow.” He looked at Coleman. “I think Bud and I will be able to handle this tomorrow.”

Flood looked at Coleman.

“I think that's best, Boss.”

“Okay,” Flood said, “somebody's gotta stay with the herd and I guess I'm the logical one.”

“You and me, Bud,” Clint said. “We'll leave at first light.”

“I'll be ready,” Coleman said.

Santiago Jones was ready.

Sterling had returned the day before, saying that the herd was approaching, would probably arrive within a day. Jones didn't know what Flood and Clint Adams would decide to do. Whether they came ahead, or they came with the herd, they had to come through this pass, where Jones and his men were waiting. If they had they could stampede the herd once it was in the pass. If they did that, the drovers would have no chance to survive.

Under normal circumstances Jones wouldn't care how many men he killed, but this time he was only concerned about one—Clint Adams. As long as he killed him, and stopped the herd from reaching Ogallala, he didn't care if the other men survived or not.

Except for Flood. Probably the best way to stop the herd was to kill Flood.

He'd be the man who killed the Gunsmith, and the man who stopped Henry Flood's last trail drive.

 

Clint and Bud Coleman had coffee with Henry Flood, but no breakfast.

“I'd hate to get killed on a full stomach,” Clint said.

Coleman didn't eat because it had been a long time since he did this sort of thing. Killing Dirker the night before had been instinctive—proving that he still had the reflexes to kill—but that didn't mean he had the stomach to kill.

Flood ate hungrily.

“If this is my last day on earth,” he said, “I wanna have a full stomach.”

Clint and Coleman saddled their horses and walked them over to the chuckwagon, where Flood was still eating.

“Just follow us in, Hank,” Clint said. “We should have the way cleared for you.”

“You sound sure of yourself.”

“Well, whether we're dead or they're dead, they shouldn't be in any shape to stop you.”

“Well, I hope it doesn't come to that,” Flood said. “Good luck to you both.”

“Thanks.”

“Thanks, Boss,” Coleman said.

Clint and Coleman rode out of camp.

 

“Think they're waitin' for us?” Coleman asked.

“I'm pretty sure they scouted us,” Clint said. “They probably know we're coming.”

“So how do we play it?”

“Head on,” Clint said. “That's the way I usually play it.”

“Maybe I should circle around—”

“That would take a while,” Clint said. “I'm sure they're going to be waiting at Platte Pass. That's the best place to stampede a herd, if that's they're plan. But whether we showed up with the herd or without, we'd have to go through that pass to get to town. Besides, I'm pretty sure head on is the way Santiago Jones is going to want to play it.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Once he heard I was along he started thinking like everybody else. Kill me for the reputation it would get him. That's why he didn't stampede the herd before now. He wants to kill me himself.”

“So you'll take him and I'll take the other five?” Coleman asked.

Clint laughed.

“No, Bud,” he said, “I think we'll divvy it up a little more evenly than that.”

 

“Want me to go have a look, Boss?” Sterling asked Santiago Jones.

“No,” Jones said. “He's comin'.”

“How can you be sure?”

“The herd's a day away,” Jones said. “Adams won't wait. He'll come.”

“How do we play it?” Sterling asked. “We can put a couple of men behind these rocks—”

Jones swung his massive left arm and knocked Sterling out of his saddle. The man hit the ground hard, rolled over and stared up at his boss.

“This is Clint Adams we're talkin' about,” Jones said, looking down. The other men had noticed what happened and were listening and looking. “He deserves a better death than bein' ambushed. We face him head on, and you keep your eyes on me.” He looked at the other men. “All of you. Do you hear?”

The other men nodded.

“You watch me for my move,” Jones said. “I'll be first.”

Frank Hughes came over and helped Sterling to his feet.

“What makes you think Adams is gonna give you the first move?” Hughes asked Jones.

“Because that's what he does,” the half-breed said. “That's what he always does. He gives his opponent the first move—and that's gonna be his death, because when I have the first mover, I can't be beat.”

None of the men knew this. They knew Santiago Jones could kill most anybody with his bare hands, but they had never seen him use his gun.

“Okay,” Hughes said, “I guess we have to take your word for that.”

“Yeah,” Jones said, “you will.”

Santiago Jones spotted them from well off.

“Two riders!” he called.

Behind him Frank Hughes sidled up next to Zeke Sterling.

“This whole thing don't make no sense,” he said. “Why didn't we just stampede the damn herd when we had the chance—and we had a lot of chances!”

“Who know?” Sterling said. “Jones is the boss. You wanna tell him you don't agree?”

“No,” Sterling said. “But that don't mean we gotta wait for him to draw. We can get the jump on Adams and whoever he's bringin' with him.”

“There's six of us and two of them,” Sterling said. “We should just play it the way Jones wants—otherwise you gotta deal with him after.”

Hughes looked over at the other men.

“Or get one of them to go along with you.”

Hughes made an annoyed sound and went to talk to the others.

 

“I see them,” Clint said.

“I don't,” Coleman said. “My eyes ain't what they used to be.”

“Looks like six men, all on horseback.”

“We gonna do this on horses?” Coleman asked.

“My guess would be we'll start on horseback,” Clint said. “Once the shooting starts everybody's going to take off for cover.”

“Hmm.”

“What is it?”

Coleman looked at him.

“With my hip the way it is I ain't gonna be able to jump off this horse.”

Clint thought a moment.

“I'm going to get off mine as fast as I can,” he said, “and get him out of the line of fire. Is this a regular mount for you?”

“Naw, just a horse I took from the remuda.”

“Good,” Clint said. “When the shooting starts just turn the horse sideways and slide off behind it.”

“I'll try,” Coleman said.

“Just don't get dragged, Bud.”

Coleman rolled his eyes.

 

“Okay, get up here,” Jones called. “Fan out on either side of me.”

The other men all mounted up and obeyed. Frank Hughes couldn't get any of the other men to go along with his plan, so he didn't know what he was going to do.

“Adams is mine,” Jones said. “I don't know who the other man is, but he's yours.”

“All of us?” Sterling said.

“Yeah.”

“And after we kill him?” Hughes asked.

“Nobody shoots Adams,” Jones said, “unless he kills me. Then he's all yours.”

 

As Clint and Coleman approached the mouth of the pass the six men fanned out. Jones had two men on his right, three on his left. Clint wondered if it would have been a good idea to bring Chip Ryan along. The younger man might have been good enough with a gun. On the other hand he was still gimpy with a bad foot and, once they all got down off their horses, Ryan would have been at a disadvantage, like Coleman.

They stopped about twenty feet from the six men.

“Adams?” the big half-breed said.

“That's right,” Clint said. “You must be Santiago Jones.”

“That's me.” Jones made a show of looking past Clint. “No herd?”

“It'll be along,” Clint said. “I wanted to have time to move the bodies.”

That made the other men stir. Clint knew he sounded confident, and that usually bothered people who had bigger numbers on their side.

“That's funny,” Jones said, without a smile. “I've got an idea, Adams.”

“What's that?”

“Why don't we step down from our horses and settle this between us.”

“That sounds good to me.”

“Your man will stay out of it?” Jones asked.

“He will. And yours?”

“They will, too.”

“Okay, then,” Clint said. “Step down.”

“Is he serious?” Coleman asked.

“No,” Clint said. “Watch the others. They'll draw, for sure.”

“Can you take him?” Coleman asked, as Clint dismounted.

“I don't know,” Clint said. “Remember, turn your horse and stay behind it.”

“Okay.”

Clint turned to Eclipse and slapped him on the rump. The horses scampered away, not too far, but out of the line of fire. When he turned Santiago Jones was standing on the ground with his legs spread.

Clint noticed something helpful. The five riders standing behind Santiago Jones were confused. They had obviously received one set of instructions, but now the big man had gone off on his own. They were looking at each other, wondering what to do.

He turned his attention to Jones.

“Where's your boss?” he asked.

“That doesn't matter,” Jones said.

“Yeah, it does. I'm going to go and see him after I kill you.”

“Ogallala,” Jones said. “Give him my regards . . . if you get there.”

The big man went for his gun, and Clint was surprised at how fast he was. In his experience, big men were not usually very fast. Against anyone else, Jones would have had a chance. He almost cleared leather when Clint shot him in the biggest target presented to him—the man's big chest.