Webb's Posse (12 page)

Abner Webb did not see the men sneaking in through the line of horses, but he visualized them as he heard the nervous animals begin to nicker under their breath and thrash back and forth against their ropes. Not wanting to hit one of the horses, and not sure how to keep from it, Webb waited, his hand trembling a bit on his rifle stock, a trickle of cold sweat running down slowly beneath his shirt collar.

In the brush and scrub trees fifty yards beyond the far side of the camp, Dick Vertrees turned to the poncho-clad man beside him and said in a lowered voice, “Get going, Cherokee. Make sure the Gants and Tunley and Baumgartner don't leave any live witnesses. And see to it Creek and Odell do their part. They're both new; it's time we see what they're made of. I'll get back there and keep an eye on our horses.”

“Why don't you go in there and check things for yourself?” said Cherokee Rhodes, looking Vertrees up and down. “I can go back and watch about our riding stock.” He checked the rifle in his hands as he spoke quietly in the darkness. “Better still, why don't we both go in there and help out with the killing? It would give our boys better odds.”

“Ha,” said Dick Vertrees. “If they need our help
against that cowardly bunch of house cats, they don't deserve to call themselves outlaws.”

“I don't recall Will Summers ever being known as cowardly,” said Cherokee Rhodes.

“He's not,” said Dick Vertrees. “But Summers is just along for what he can get out of them. Shooting starts, he'll lay low or else cut and run. He ain't putting himself in danger for that bunch. Summers only does something if it's worth serious money to him. That's something I can garun-damn-tee you. Now get in there and wrap this thing up. I already know where we can sell them horses for top dollar.”

“I hope you're right about Summers,” Rhodes said quietly.

“Don't worry. I'm never wrong about men like us. Summers is a straight-up outlaw, no different than you and me. He just keeps it well-hidden most times.”

“Since you're so sure of yourself, I don't see why you don't go on and—” Cherokee Rhodes' words cut short as a shot exploded from the direction of the glowing campfire.

“Damn it, half-breed!” Dick Vertrees hissed, giving Rhodes a shove toward the campsite. “All hell's breaking loose! Get in there and kill somebody!”

Gunshots blossomed in the darkness surrounding the campsite as Cherokee Rhodes ran toward the melee. He slid to the ground when he saw Bufford and Davis Gant come charging from among the line of horses and into the campfire light, firing down at the empty blankets. “They're not here!” Davis bellowed. “Where are they?” He threw a quick glance around the abandoned campsite.

“Damn it to hell, Davis!” screamed Bufford Gant. “We've been tricked!” Shots caught him from all directions at once, jerking him back and forth like a
rag doll as the bullets sliced through his body. Davis Gant managed to dive to the ground, grab two of the saddles lying near the campfire and pile them together for cover. Cat Creek and Lester Odell had also just charged into the campsite. But seeing Bufford die on his feet, Lester Odell dove over beside Davis Gant and began firing from behind the saddles. “Get back, Cat!” he shouted. “Take some cover!”

“I ain't leaving you, Lester!” Cat Creek vowed. But he quickly dropped back into the darkness, fired two hasty shots, then disappeared when four possemen's rifles concentrated their fire upon him.

Cherokee Rhodes fired shot after shot at the muzzle flashes until the rifles turned from the campsite and sent bullets whistling past his head. With a long yell, Rhodes jumped up and ran wildly zigzagging back toward the horses. Catching a glimpse of the outlaw and hearing his yell, Sherman Dahl said to Carl Margood and Louis Collingsworth, who lay firing beside him, “Pour it on the camp! I'm going after that one! If we let any of them get away, they'll be dogging us this whole trip!”

Seeing Sherman Dahl spring up in the midst of rifle fire and take off behind the fleeing outlaw, Louis Collingsworth asked above the explosions, “What the hell's got into that schoolmaster all of a sudden?”

“Beats me!” shouted Margood, firing and levering his rifle without missing a beat.

Near the horses, Will Summers lay firing at the two outlaws still trapped in the center of the campsite with only the two bullet-riddled saddles for cover. In the racket of gunfire and the commotion of men locked in battle, the line of horses reared frantically against their ropes. At the other end of the line of horses lay Abner Webb, also firing at the two outlaws. But as he stopped to reload, Lester Odell and
Davis Gant took advantage of the lessening of bullets kicking up dirt around them. They rose up as one into a crouch amid the continuing fire from the other possemen. Snatching up the saddles as shields, they bolted out into the greater darkness, a sawed-off shotgun swung on a strip of rawhide down Davis Gant's back.

“Stay after them, men!” Will Summers bellowed, still firing at the fleeing figures as he came to his feet. “Don't let them get away!” He ran over to Abner Webb and pulled him to his feet as the rest of the men gave chase to the outlaws. “You okay, Deputy?” Summers asked.

“I'm all right. What about you?” Abner Webb gave himself a once-over, brushing dust from his shirt front and feeling for any wounds he might have missed in the heat of battle. “We better get with them, Will!” He levered a fresh round into his hot rifle chamber and turned to take off behind the other men. But Summers grabbed his arm, stopping him.

“Take it easy, Deputy. Let these men feel like they're earning their keep.”

“But they'll get themselves killed,” Webb protested.

“No, they won't. Not unless they run off a cliff. Vertrees' men are hightailing now. They won't stop till they figure they gave us the slip.” He let out a breath and looked all around. But before he could relax, they both heard the sound of someone dragging something through the brush. “Who goes there?” shouted Summers, aiming his rifle.

“It's me, Dahl. Don't shoot,” said the young schoolmaster. “I'm bringing one in…. I think it's Vertrees himself.”

“Vertrees?” said Summers, giving Abner Webb a surprised look in the flicker of low firelight. “This
teacher's starting to impress me,” he added under his breath.

“Bring him on over here, Dahl,” said Abner Webb. “Let's take a look at him.” In the brush fifty yards off to their right, they heard the possemen yelling and firing as the two outlaws fled on foot. A blast of Davis Gant's sawed-off shotgun resounded loudly through the brush.

“Yep,” Will Summers said, stooping down over the body when Dahl brought it and laid it on the ground. He took a close look at the dead face with a long veil of blood stretching halfway down the chest from beneath the stubbled chin. “That's Dick Vertrees all right,” said Summers. The surprised look on his face matched his surprised voice. “You—you cut him like this, schoolteacher?” he asked, sounding even more stunned.

“I had to,” said Sherman Dahl. “It turned into a risky situation.

“I bet it did,” said Summers, looking him up and down.

Dahl continued. “I chased another man into the brush toward the horses. He slipped away in the dark, but this one was hiding nearby. I didn't know how many more might be around. So to keep quiet, I chose the knife. That was all I could do,” he added with finality.

Will Summers looked at the deep, perfect gash across Dick Vertrees' throat. “This wasn't your first time using a blade though, was it?” he asked in a somber tone.

“No,” said the young schoolteacher. “I'm a veteran of the Civil War: fought in the Wilderness Campaign. Saw a lot of action as a forward scout.”

“Forward scout would have been my guess,” said Summers, turning his eyes away from Dick Vertrees'
slit throat and up to Dahl's solemn, cold blue eyes. “Who'd you fight for, the North or the South?”

“That's right,” said Sherman Dahl bluntly. He stared at Will Summers until at length it became apparent to Summers that further information would not be forthcoming.

“Either one, you do good work, teacher,” Summers offered. They turned at the sound of winded voices and brush scraping against trouser legs. The possemen came trotting in one and two at a time from the darkness like hounds fresh off a scent.

“Collingsworth and Edmund Daniels caught one of them bushwhacking rats, Deputy!” said Carl Margood, out of breath, his rifle dangling in his hand. “They're dragging him in right now!” As he spoke, he caught sight of Dick Vertrees' pale face, the vacant, wide-open eyes seeming to stare up at him. “Lord God! Quick, boys, come look at this!” Carl Margood exclaimed, his breath heaving in his chest. “Somebody's nearly cleaved this one's danged head off!”

The men gathered, looking down at the grisly sight on the ground at their feet. “Oh no!” said Wild Joe Duvall, throwing a hand over his mouth and looking away.

“Joe? Are you all right?” Abner Webb asked.

“Huh-uh,” Joe grunted, shaking his head, not looking at the deputy. “I'm…not feeling so good.”

“Then get off into the brush,” Will Summers insisted. “We're going to be sleeping here tonight.”

Wild Joe hurried away, his right hand planted firmly against his puffed out cheeks.

Hearing the angry, winded voices coming out of the brush, Abner Webb and Will Summers turned and saw Louis Collingsworth and Edmund Daniels throw Davis Gant into the dimly lit campsite.
“You're making one damn bad mistake, you bunch of square-headed sonsabitches!” Gant cursed. “I was just passing through the tree line and heard the ruckus going on! That's the truth, so help me God!”

“Oh yeah?” said Collingsworth. He raised his panting voice to the rest of the men. “Somebody get a rope! He started out just passing through the tree line…. We'll put him right back where we found him. Only this time, he'll be hanging from a limb!”

“Easy, Collingsworth,” said Webb. “Don't get carried away. He's a prisoner now; he's under my custody. There'll be no hanging while I'm in charge.”

“Like hell,” said Collingsworth. “He's killed Ike Stevens. Go look for yourself. Are you the one who's going to face Ike's woman and boy and tell them this skunk is still alive while poor Ike's lying with dirt on his face?”

“Ike Stevens is dead?” Abner Webb looked all around.

“Here he is, Deputy,” said Miles Michaels, the blacksmith. “He ain't far from it.”

The men stepped to one side so Webb could get through them to where two men had just laid Ike Stevens on the ground near the low fire. “It's true, Deputy,” Ike Stevens said in a failing voice, both hands clasped to the gaping hole in his stomach where he'd caught the full blast from a load of buckshot. “I'm all numb down both…legs. I'm missing…some stuff down here.” He nodded grimly at the surging stomach wound, then lay back, trying to clasp it shut with both hands.

“Oh good Lord, Ike,” said Deputy Webb, looking away from the terrible wound. “What can I do? Tell me what to do for you!”

“Get me home…and buried, first thing,” Ike Stevens murmured, his breath becoming more shallow
and weak. “Tell Martha…tell my boy…tell them—” He struggled for a second, seeking one last gasp of air. But when it didn't come to him, he relaxed with a long sigh and settled limply on the dirt.

“I ain't the one who gut-shot him. I swear to God I ain't!” Davis Gant pleaded.

“You rotten, murdering son of a—!” Louis Collingsworth hurled himself at Gant, his spread fingers plunging toward the outlaw's eyes like an eagle's talons.

“No!” Abner Webb caught Collingsworth and held him back. “He's a prisoner!”

“Let me go, Deputy!” Collingsworth screamed.

“String that bastard up!” one of the men cried out.

All of the men advanced on Davis Gant at once, forcing Abner Webb to turn Collingsworth loose and take a stand between them and Gant.

“Men, you can't lynch him! I won't have it!” Abner Webb shouted. He tossed a worried glance at Will Summers for support. “Will, come on! Do something here! Help me out!” The men pressed closer.

Ted Logsdon, the barber, had hurried over to his horse and now came back waving a coiled-up rope. “Let's see how he likes wearing this straight to hell!”

“Lay the rope down, barber,” said Summers. “You won't be using it tonight.”

“You've got no authority to stop me,” said Logsdon, gripping the rope tighter and staring into Summers' eyes.

“I know that,” Summers said calmly. “I'm just appealing to your good sense.”

Davis Gant let out a dark chuckle, seeing Will Summers draw his pistol and cock it. “There you go, Summers,” Gant said. “You can't let these square-headed poltroons hang me, can you?”

Summers turned to Davis Gant, his gun cocked and held at arm's length. “So long, Gant,” he said.