Oakley Madden felt uneasy. Things hadn’t gone right. He stood in the door of Tilghley’s trading post, looking down across the meadow at the river crossing. Beyond the cottonwood banks stretched the expanse of desert he and his men had crossed during the night. Now the hot mid-morning sun battered the old adobe outpost, and while his men slept, Madden stood restively smoking, inhaling deeply, frowning across the land.
Old Tilghley came out and complained in his aged cracked voice; Madden shut him up sharply and the old man, after glaring spunkily at him, went back inside. Madden reflected bitterly how the pint-sized Gutierrez had managed to cut down two of his men yesterday; how that fop of a bartender had killed Luke Holliday, and after all they had only cleared twelve hundred and eighty-seven dollars out of the bank, on top of which the raid on the Silver Dollar wagon had backfired; how Chris Holliday had stubbornly insisted on remaining behind to bury his dead brother, when, if Chris had owned the sense God gave a bumblebee, he’d have left his no-good brother in the street of Spanish Flat, where at least he would have had a doctor.
Madden twirled the points of his mustache between his fingers; he ground out his smoke underfoot and went down to the barn to glance in on his crew. Although no riders were visible on the eastward stretch of the desert, he had a strange feeling. He didn’t trust the silence. He might have shrugged it off: reasonably, the law would have gone chasing up into the Yellows, with no tracks to follow. The rain, he reflected, had been the only good luck in a rotten day. But just the same, he was troubled. Chris Holliday had not caught up. Of course, most likely, Chris’ horse had given out and he would be plodding afoot across the sand, sweating under the brassy sun and the hundred-and-fifteen degree heat. But none of this reasoning served to dispel Madden’s nervousness. Yesterday morning, when Walt Smiley had met him on the trail, an arm bullet-shattered and reporting the dismal failure of the plan against Six and the wagon, Madden had been of half a mind to let the gang rot and take off by himself. Smiley had ridden for Mexico; it was the last Madden would see of Smiley or any of that bunch. Six had killed Peso. Madden shook his head; all the way around, he had made a bad job of things. Now Six was after him, probably fortified by the guns of fighters like Tracy Chavis and Bones Riley, men whom Madden was too smart not to respect. And Madden knew that if he could think of dodging the law by cutting across the desert, Six was perfectly capable of coming to the same conclusion. That was one reason why Madden had stayed awake all morning to watch the east.
But no one showed in that direction, and from this slight elevation Madden could see many miles out into the flats.
If the posse was out there, they still had a good long way to come before he was in danger.
That was why he distrusted his own feelings of imminent trouble. But those feelings kept growing in him, forcing themselves against his reason, spooking him, until, shortly after eleven—still with no riders visible on the desert—he gave in to his own premonitions, and stalked back into the barn to kick his men awake.
Ivy was the first one he awakened. Ivy looked up sleepily and complained, “What the hell’s wrong?”
“Were getting out of here,” Madden said.
“What for? Hell, I only got three hours’ sleep. Nobody comin’, is there?”
“No.”
“Then I guess I’ll go back to sleep,” Ivy said.
Madden kicked him again, harder, in the ribs. “Get up, damn it.”
Ivy knew him too well to ignore a direct command when he heard it. The big ox-bodied man sat up and ground knuckles into his eye-sockets to wipe away sleep. Madden went on down the line, waking the rest of them. When all eyes were open, he said, “On your feet. Get saddled and pack some grub. We’re leaving.”
Not leaving time for argument, he went back outside. His horse, a fresh one he had forcibly swapped from Tilghley, stood saddled and waiting by the front of the adobe trading post. He walked over to it and tightened the cinch, tested the bit, and made sure his saddlebags were full of food. Then he took his canteen over to the water trough and filled it at the pump. Afterward, hanging the canteen on the saddle, he went inside the trading post and said to Tilghley, “My boys need food and fresh stock. We’ll leave our own horses here—fair trade.”
“Hell,” Tilghley said bitterly, “them broncs of yours is wind-broke for good. Ain’t worth more than horsemeat.”
“Tough, old man,” Madden said, and went back to the door to look out.
Behind him he heard Tilghley breathing hard in anger. The old man was grizzled and lean; how he had survived the Indian wars in this lonely outpost was beyond Madden. He heard the old man’s complaining voice rise once more: “Am I goin’ to get paid for the grub?”
“Afraid not,” Madden said. “Chalk it up to charity.”
“Charity, hell. Thievery. I’ll tell you something, you young stud—it’ll take a powerful lot of runnin’ before you get away from your own meanness.”
“Button it up, old man,” Madden said, and went outside. Faro Price came out of the barn leading his saddled horse; Price took the horse over to the water trough to let it drink. Madden sat down on a stump near his own horse and waited impatiently. The sun made him sweat and he longed for the cool country he had left behind in the Yellows. Yesterday’s raid had been a bad mistake; he had no choice but to admit it, at least privately. He remembered Baltimore and Charleston, carefree younger days, and wondered where it had gone sour, where he had turned wrong; all this time, he felt, he had been sliding downward into blackness. After he got out of this, and disbanded his crew, he thought perhaps he would head farther west, try to make a fresh start in California. But secretly he knew it would do no good. Once again he would choose the wrong roads; it was in the cards.
The others came straggling out of the barn and Madden felt a sudden need to get away, as fast as he could, alone. Controlling himself, he called them all over to him and took the heavy saddlebags off his saddle, and spilled the money out on the ground. There were ten golden double-eagles, twenty-dollar pieces, among the litter of smaller coins and one-dollar-bills. He took the double eagles and said, “Split up the rest of it yourselves. Then ride out of here. I don’t aim to see any of you again.”
With that, he pocketed the coins and strode to his horse. Climbing up, he was ready to turn when Ivy’s whining voice came at him: “What am I going to do, Oak?”
“Hang yourself,” Madden said, and turned his horse north out of the yard.
Leaving the trading post, he had it in mind to strike north along the Smoke River, going up into the Mogollon country, then turning west toward the Rio Colorado and eventually cross into California. But he had not gone a hundred yards upriver when he was chilled to the bone by sight of a grim gathering of five riders coming toward him from the trees.
“Six,” he hissed. Sudden panic struck him. He jerked the horse around and spurred it back toward Tilghley’s.
Six had resolved that the only way to catch Madden’s bunch by surprise was to cut northwest from Chris Holliday’s grave, striking the Smoke at a point several miles north of Tilghley’s Ford, and coming down to the trading post under cover of the cottonwoods. He had known that Madden, if he chose to hole up at the trading post, would keep a man on guard, to watch the desert, and from Tilghley’s a man could see miles out onto the flats, far enough to get away with plenty of lead. Thus Six had gambled, and taken the longer route.
Now, spotting Madden at the same time Madden saw them, Six felt a fierce exultation: his guesswork had proved successful. He drove his horse to a dead run, the others right behind him, and lifted his gun. It was not a time for strategy; he could not plan to surround the outlaws, for that would give Madden time to alert them. The only course was to ram right into their midst and take them while they were confused.
Beside him Elias and Riley and Redondo, all of them wily fighters, were flanking off into the trees to form a wider net. Larry Keene came up alongside and the two of them rushed abreast into the yard.
It took not more than a single glimpse to see what was happening. Just ahead, Madden was sitting his wildly rearing horse, bellowing orders to the half dozen men who stood awkwardly around the yard. Only one of them, Faro Price, had a horse. Six saw Drake Ivy by the barn, arrested in the act of looking up; he seemed to have been counting coins. Jed and Creed Bolton were by the trading post door. Faro Price was with his horse, loading supplies into saddlebags. Two others were near the water trough, in the act of diving behind it. What about Sarasen? He was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps Sarasen had, after all, simply ridden out of the country.
Madden, cursing in great cries, seemed to see the uselessness of making a stand; he wheeled his horse and tried to make a dash for the trees to the south. Off to Six’s left, beyond the building, Bones Riley’s rifle roared and Madden’s horse went down. Windmilling his arms for balance, Madden found his feet and raced into the barn with Riley’s bullets kicking up dust at his heels. Six called out in a loud voice, “Throw down your guns!”
The Boltons looked at each other, confused. Ivy whirled inside the barn; that put two men in there, Ivy and Madden. Price had swung behind his horse and was using it for cover, lifting his revolver. All this impressed itself on Six’s mind in a fraction of a second. He brought his gun around and snapped a shot at Price’s exposed legs; Price’s knee buckled and he sank to the ground under the horse, which reared wild-eyed and ran off. But Price was not out of the fight yet. Six fired at him again, missed, and realized that he was too much of a target sitting tall on the horse; he jumped out of the saddle and ran up against the corner of the trading post.
Price was crawling to the protection of the water trough, which already sheltered two of the toughs. The Boltons had gone inside the trading post. Keene was not in sight; at the far edge of trees Six saw Redondo. He looked around in back of him and saw Elias and Riley coming up from the river, Elias going around the far end of the building. Riley came up beside Six. “Looks like a stand-off.”
Just then two guns bloomed at either side of the barn doorway—Madden and Drake Ivy. Six shot back, to keep their heads down. From a position in the nearby trees to his right, a big-bore rifle opened up and methodically plugged bullets into the water trough. That would be Keene, and immediately Six saw what the rancher had in mind. Coolly, Keene was punching holes near the bottom of the trough. The water would run out, and when it did, the thin wood of the trough would not keep a bullet from penetrating a man.
There was a deafening explosion from within the trading post—buffalo gun, Six decided, or perhaps a double-barreled greener. A second report followed on the heels of the first, and after it came a high old man’s cracked voice, “I taken these two buzzards out of the fight, Marshal.”
“Obliged,” Six called back, and could not help a brief grin. Keene’s bullets were rapidly emptying the trough in mid-yard; water already stained a wide area of ground. Then, from the far side of the building, Elias’ pistol began to fire steadily, setting up a murderous crossfire on the three outlaws who were pinned down behind the trough. Faced with that and the fast-dropping water level, the three called out and stood up, hands high and empty.
“Walk this way,” Six commanded, all the while keeping one eye on the barn and the other on the three toughs, suspicious of treachery such as Chris Holliday had displayed last night with the derringer. But Price and the two others came along meekly enough, Price favoring his wounded leg. Six put his handcuffs on Price and handed all of them over to Bones Riley. “Tie them up and sit on them, Bones.”
Riley nodded and herded them back around the building, out of the line of fire. Six raised his voice, “Tilghley?”
“Yep.”
“Are those two dead in there?”
“The big one is. T’other one’s got a busted arm. I missed my proper shot.”
“Tie him up, then.”
“I got you,” Tilghley called back.
Looking across to the far side of the clearing, Six saw that Redondo had taken up a position behind the barn, to prevent Madden and Ivy from escaping that way. With Keene to the right, and Elias to the left, and Six here facing the barn squarely from the corner of Tilghley’s store, the barn was effectively surrounded. For the first time, Six allowed himself a short bleak smile of satisfaction.
Holstering his gun, he cupped hands around his mouth to call across to the barn, “We’ve got you circled, Madden. You might as well come out.”
“Come in and take us, Jeremy!” was Madden’s reply.
Six frowned. There was no angle from which a man could approach the barn without having to cross open ground. Presently he shrugged and called out again. “Madden. You listening?”
“I hear you.”
“After dark I intend to burn that barn down around your ears. You haven’t got any way out of it. Give it up.”
“No deal, Jeremy.”
Six settled back, forcing patience on himself. The noon sun was hot and afforded no shade. He wondered what Madden had in mind. Was Madden just playing for time, trying to figure out a way to escape? Six didn’t see any method by which the outlaw could get away. But on the other hand it would be senseless to risk any man’s life by trying to attack Madden. He would simply have to wait until dark, then lob a burning limb onto the barn roof. Tilghley wouldn’t like it, but it was better to lose a barn than a man’s life.
Tilghley’s voice came from inside, “Marshal?”
“What is it?”
“You hungry?”
“Why,” Six said, “I guess I am.”
“I’ll drop some food out the high window. Right behind you; look out.”
Six looked up and saw the window, cut high and small in the stout adobe wall to withstand Indian attack. He watched two cans, peaches and beans, drop, followed by a can-opener. “Thanks,” he called. Riley came around, never bashful when food was near, and Tilghley tossed more cans out; Riley took some of them around the building for Elias. Six began to eat, all the while watching the barn.
There was a quick flurry of shots, startling him after the long stillness; someone was firing from the barn, and in answer, Larry Keene’s rifle was talking in the trees to Six’s right. Then Keene’s rifle stopped, and after a moment Keene called out, “Jeremy?”
“What is it?”
“I’m hit. Pulling back.”
Madden must have drawn a bead on Keene’s muzzle-smoke. Six called, “How bad is it?”
“Not bad. I’ll have to stop the blood. Can you cover this side?”
“Go ahead back,” Six told him, and put a pair of shots into the barn for good measure.
In time Keene appeared behind him, having circled around in the deeper protection of the trees. Keene said, in a worried tone, “I thought I heard a horse moving back in the woods.”
“Probably one of ours, running loose.”
“I reckon,” Keene said. There was a wicked-looking bullet burn across the top of his left shoulder, ranging downward in back. Six stepped back long enough to help him bind it up, then said, “You’d better get back to shelter and let yourself relax. We’ve got enough men to handle this without you.” But in his mind the feverish thought was edging his nerves: That horse back in the woods. Sarasen? What if he cuts a crossfire on us?
Keene drifted back around the building, and then suddenly Six heard Drake Ivy’s voice, hollering from the barn, “Six, Hey, Six, you still there?”
“Right here,” he answered, a little drily.
“I’m givin’ it up, Six. I’m coming out. For God’s sake don’t shoot me.”
“Keep your hands high, Drake, and move slow.”
“Here I come.”
The massive Ivy appeared in the doorway, hands over his head, walking forward slowly. Six stood and flattened himself at the trading post corner, allowing only his eyes and gun to show.
Ivy had not taken half a dozen steps before Oakley Madden’s voice cut forward, high-pitched with strain,
“God damn you, Drake—you’re not double-crossing me!”
Madden sounded near the breaking-point; his high-strung nerves were betraying him. Six had to stand in astonishment while Madden’s gun roared in the dark barn and Ivy’s huge body rocked with the impact. Ivy turned around slowly, having trouble keeping his feet under him. He had no gun. Blood welled thick, high on the back of his shirt. Massive arms outstretched, Ivy roared with rage and lumbered back into the barn with great stubborn lurching strides.
There was a faint sound of scuffling. Then Ivy appeared again in the opening. His head was lolling; he seemed half-out on his feet.
Then Six realized what was holding him up.
Madden was right behind Ivy, his arm around the big man, supporting him. When Madden pushed, Ivy walked in obedient, awkward, half-conscious steps. Madden said hoarsely, “He’s still alive, Jeremy. If you don’t want to kill him unarmed, stay away from me. Stay away, you hear?”
Grinding his teeth together, Six called out the bitterly galling order to his men,
“Hold your fire, boys.”
Madden was backing along the barn wall, sidling toward Faro Price’s horse, which had drifted over and stood near the corner of the barn. Madden took the reins in his teeth and, still supporting Ivy before him, began slowly to walk toward the trees, leading the horse. Six had to admire his raw courage. Any second, Ivy might lose consciousness; and when that great weight went dead in Madden’s arm, it would fall, losing Madden his human shield. Madden’s pistol stuck out under Ivy’s arm.
No opening seemed to offer itself to Six. Redondo was over in those far trees behind Madden, but Madden shrewdly was maneuvering the horse in back of him, keeping it effectively between himself and Redondo’s gun. He was heading toward a spot in the woods midway between Redondo’s position and the post Keene had left.
There was a thump inside the trading post, and a shout, but Six had no time to pay attention to that. He kept his gun up, waiting for Madden to make a slip.
Almost to the trees, Madden cackled. Ivy’s tongue was out, his eyes were glazed, but he was on his feet. Six marveled at the huge man’s tremendous store of energy.
There was only one chance that Six could see. He braced his pistol in both hands, hating this, took aim on the head of the horse Madden was leading, and fired.
The bullet penetrated the horse’s eye and it went down without a sound. The horse’s fall threw Madden off balance. Ivy swayed, and fell from Madden’s grip. Exposed, Madden roared a curse and leaped into the trees just as half a dozen bullets sought him. But a moment later Six heard Madden’s high laughter: they had missed.
Grimly, he stepped forward from the building and began running toward the trees, risking exposure to Madden’s gun, in the hope that Madden had faded back.
He had covered half the distance across the yard when he saw a tall shape step out of the trees to his right.
Ben Sarasen.
Sarasen’s gun was coming up. His mouth uttered a terse statement that Six didn’t catch. Stark fear paralyzed Six and instinct made him drop flat without thinking.
It was good he did; a bullet fanned air so close over his head that he could feel the whiplash-wind of it, and then Sarasen’s gun was rocking, bucking in his fist. In naked astonishment, Six saw Creed Bolton at the trading-post door, folding up under the savage onslaught of Sarasen’s bullets, a smoking rifle in Creed’s hand.
Then another gun fired, from the trees. With shocked disbelief, Six saw the tall figure of Sarasen bend in the middle and fall. Six saw Oakley Madden standing on the edge of the trees, shirt-front soaked with Ivy’s blood, laughing insanely. Madden’s gun was coming around to bear on Six.
Lying flat, Six closed his mind to every sight except Madden’s distorted, laughing face. With grim, desperate fury he worked the mechanism of his kicking gun until at last it clicked empty; but long before that, riddled with bullets from Six’s gun and three others as well, Madden fell to earth.
Six scrambled to his feet and ran to Sarasen’s side. The gunfighter was lying flat on his stomach, head turned to one side. The gun that had made his life lay a few inches from his hand. His eyes were open and he was breathing in jerks; when Six came up, he said, “Roll me over, Jeremy.”
Six moved him, as gently as he could, onto his back. Sarasen’s eyes looked at him. For the first time, they were not clouded with bitter despair. Six said, with quiet awe, “I was caught in a crossfire between Madden and Bolton. You knew that—you stepped into the open to draw Madden’s fire.”
“Didn’t have time to think about it,” Sarasen said in gasps. “I just did what came to me. Damn it, I think my back’s broken. I can’t move.”
“I’ll get you some water. We’ll have you patched up—”
“Never mind,” Sarasen breathed tightly. “This is the last hand. Just as well, I guess; I’m already a fossil. Me and Madden, we were dead many years ago. It’s a comfort to know the waiting’s over with.”
Six sat by him in misery. After a moment Sarasen said, “I’m pleased to have ridden with you, Jeremy. When a man dies it’s always comforting to have a friend with him. Tell Clarissa she’ll be best off if she forgets she ever knew me. I’m just a bad dream.”
In a little while Sarasen was dead. The bloody business was ended. Six stood up slowly, favoring the stiffness in his legs. He turned and walked toward the building, tramping his shadow into the ground.
Six sat in the office, watching moonlight flood the street. Bill Dealing came in and said, “Everything’s quiet,” and hung up his shotgun. Six nodded and got up and went out onto the porch. Down in the Drover’s Rest a lusty racket grew, men laughing. He turned that way, feeling the lonely pressures of darkness, and went into the place, to the bar. Hal Craycroft came over, arm in a sling, to inquire after his needs. “Beer,” Six said. It was a quiet night; he could afford one beer to slake the dusty thirst. Bones Riley sat back at a card table behind a half-empty bottle of port, surrounded by fascinated listeners to his outrageous ribald tales. As he stood drinking his beer, Six felt inundated by waves of memory that left a sour taste on his tongue. He left the beer mug half-full on the bar and turned outside, going across the street toward Cat Town. Traversing a narrow thoroughfare, he could look down to the end of it and see Mrs. Gutierrez’ house, its windows warm with lamplight. Fat Annie sat in a rocking chair on the porch of her place and called out a friendly greeting; Six waved to her and went by, and presently came to the Glad Hand.
It was an off-night for the orchestra. Buchler was playing tinny melodies. Only a handful of people were in the room. He went through to the office door, and knocked.
At the sound of Clarissa’s voice he went in. She looked up and said, “It’s been a long time since you came in here. Jeremy.”
“I wanted to work things out.”
“In your mind. Have you got it figured out?”
“Not really,” he said. “I guess only God has the answers.”
She was sitting behind the desk, in a green dress that was familiar to him. He said nothing more, but his glance brooding on the desk must have revealed his thoughts to her. She said softly, “He’s a hard man to forget, Jeremy.”
“I know,” he said; he knew it well.
“Some things take a lot of time,” Clarissa said.
“I know that too,” he agreed.
And then, in answer to the wordless question in his gaze, she shook her head and only said, “I don’t have the answers either, Jeremy. But one day maybe we’ll be lucky enough to find our own answers, you and me.”
It was as much of a statement as he could hope for from her at this stage. He nodded, touched his hat brim gently, and left.
As he crossed the room, Buchler got up from the piano and followed him outside. Buchler stopped at his customary post beside the front door and lit a cigarette. Six said, “Those things won’t do your lungs much good.”
“We all die,” was Buchler’s answer. He bent over and coughed rackingly, and straightened, tossing the smoke down and grinding it out. “Maybe you’re right. Then again, I ain’t sure I want to live to see the future. Bound to be kind of tame, don’t you think?”
“That would be all right by me,” Six answered.
Buchler nodded judiciously. “Maybe so. Sure is hot. Going to be hot another two months, I guess.”
Six tugged his hat down. “I’ve got to make my rounds,” he said, and turned away, walking down the dusty moonlit street. Off in another quarter of town some drunken fool shot off a gun. With a little grimace, Six turned his feet that way, touching his gun and testing its freedom of movement in the holster.
It was proving to be a long dusty summer.