At ten minutes before midnight all the participants of this potentially violent drama were engaged in widely varied pursuits. Some of these men—Lawyer Green, the Sheriff of Byrne County, Dr. Thaddeus Russell and the Justice of the Peace—were destined to be connected, but not actively involved in, the final showdown. Others were marked by Fate to be well and truly involved, risking their lives in a battle to the death.
Ten minutes before midnight a couple of Double L hands were hustling the supply-wagon and a panting and lathered team into Byrne City’s main street.
It had rolled past several saloons at which the two punchers on the seat—Horton and Jelkie—cast wistful sidelong glances.
“I was never so all-fired thirsty …” began the skinny Horton.
“There’s nothin’ like the sight and sound of a saloon,” growled the even skinnier Jelkie, “to give a man a thirst.”
“Well ...?” prodded Horton.
“Well,” frowned Jelkie, “we ain’t come to town to get likkered-up. Cole Robinson give us orders and, by Jonah, them orders better be followed right. First we pass the word to Doc Russell and the sheriff. Then we find a J.P. and tell him to head for Box G muy pronto—and then we check into Kimbrough’s barn till mornin’.”
“And load supplies at the emporium—and go on back to the ranch.” Horton sighed sadly. “I wouldn’t call that a barrel of fun—would you?”
“We get paid for followin’ Cole’s orders,” Jelkie gruffly reminded him.
They would have no difficulty in contacting the county sheriff. Light glowed from the windows of the law office. If Sheriff March wasn’t there, one of his deputies could surely inform them of his whereabouts. Horton stalled the team at the hitch rack. They climbed down, advanced on the closed door of the law-office and rapped loudly. Sheriff March certainly was present. He opened the door to them, his broad face creased in a frown, a half-smoked cigar jutting from his mouth.
“Howdy, Horton—Jelkie,” he greeted. “What the devil do you fellers want at this hour? It’s near midnight.”
“And time I went my weary way,” muttered Jonas Green, as he rose from his chair in front of the sheriff’s desk. “Long past my bed-time, Eli.”
“We had to finish the game,” muttered March. “I couldn’t have slept a wink tonight—with such a game unfinished.”
“I defeated you.” The lawyer’s eyes gleamed. He showed March a good-humored smile. “You’ll stay awake anyway—trying to unravel my system, trying to decide where you went wrong.”
March scowled at the chessboard and sourly opined, “I should’ve stayed with checkers. It’s less complicated.” But he tried not to be a sore loser. “Well, thanks for stopping by, Jonas. At least I got whupped by a good friend.”
“Sheriff,” frowned Jelkie, “what we got to tell you is mighty important.”
“Tell it, then,” offered March.
The aged lawyer had donned his derby and was moving toward the doorway, but he came to a halt and listened attentively, as Jelkie announced:
“We got a feller name of Gillery laid up out at the ranch. Seems he was drygulched. Sam Beech found him and brought him in ...”
“Calamity Sam?” interrupted March. “Don’t tell me he still works for Double L? I thought sure Luke would’ve fired him weeks ago.”
“Beech got fired,” grunted Horton. “It was afterwards that he found this Gillery.”
“You’re quite sure about the name?” demanded Green.
“Gillery,” nodded Horton. “That’s what Cole Robinson called him. He ain’t cashed in yet. Luke wants we should send Doc Russell out to the ranch muy pronto, on account of ...”
“On account of,” guessed the sheriff, “Dora May and Cole and old Dan have been playing doctor—and they want to be sure they didn’t kill this poor jasper.” He eyed the lawyer curiously. “Jonas—does the name mean anything to you?”
“If he’s one of the Box G Gillerys ...” began Green.
“He’s from Box G all right,” said Jelkie.
“One of the Gillery boys,” mused Green.
“That wild bunch from down by the border?” challenged March.
“The brothers,” frowned Green, “of Lucy Rose Gillery—to whom old Brigg Fullerton left half of his estate. Subject to a certain condition, of course.” He stroked his chin, stared pensively at the cowpokes. “Do you happen to know exactly where this man was ambushed?”
“And which brother is he?” demanded March. “Did Cole mention his first name?”
“Sam did,” recalled Jelkie. “He called him Arch—said he found him back near Lampazo Bend.”
“It’s my guess this Gillery hombre was headed for town,” offered Horton.
“What makes you think so?” prodded March.
“Well, Cole says we gotta send a J.P. down south to the Box G spread,” drawled Horton. “Says that’s what Gillery wanted most. And where else would he find a J.P.? He’d just have to come to Byrne City.”
“I think our friend is right, Eli,” muttered the lawyer. “Also, I can offer a shrewd guess as to why a J.P. is so badly needed at the Gillery ranch. Lucy Rose has been courted and is ready to marry—in accordance with the terms of the Fullerton will.”
“It’s none of my business whether or not the Gillery girl gets married,” frowned March, as he donned his Stetson. “What interests me is who drygulched Arch Gillery. In my book, attempted murder is damn near as bad as murder itself. Tell you what, Jonas. How about you stop by the Clifford house, wake Ed Clifford and give him the message? I’ll find Doc Russell and one of my deputies and ride out to Double L. Maybe Doc can revive Gillery long enough for me to question him.”
“It’ll be near sun-up before you reach Double L,” Jelkie pointed out.
“That’s okay by me,” shrugged March. “I’d relish breakfast dished up by old Dan Collins.”
“I’ll certainly pass the word to Ed Clifford,” said Green, as he quit the office.
Twenty minutes later, Sheriff March and one of his deputies, the barrel-chested Josh Pardelow, escorted Doc Russell’s surrey out of Byrne City and began covering the miles to Double L. March’s other deputies had been alerted and could be relied upon to maintain the peace in town, no matter how long their chief stayed away.
While they rode level with the surrey-seat, March confided to Pardelow his reason for wanting to interrogate the wounded man as quickly as possible.
“I got my own notion about who drygulched Gillery. I haven’t forgotten Pete Holbrook and his trigger-happy pards.”
“If it was Holbrook,” frowned Pardelow, “you got to remember Lampazo Bend is way out of your jurisdiction.”
“Josh,” scowled the sheriff, “I’ve had my bellyful of Holbrook and his kind—scavenging scum that drift all over the Southwest, making sneak-raids, ganging up on lone travelers. The hell with the rules. I’d take a chance on tangling with the Federal authorities, if it meant putting Holbrook behind bars.”
“Holbrook is one of the worst—that’s true enough,” mused Pardelow. “But would he ambush a Gillery? Where’s the profit? Box G is a hard-luck outfit. Everybody knows that.”
“I still say it’s too much of a coincidence,” muttered the sheriff. “Holbrook run out of town—and an ambush on the trail to Byrne City—all within the same twenty-four hours. Too much of a coincidence.”
~*~
It was exactly three-twenty-five in the morning when the surrey stalled in the front yard. The sheriff and his deputy reined up, dismounted and tethered their animals to a corral-rail, while Russell descended from the rig and headed for the ranch house porch, toting his small valise and nodding a greeting to Luke Loomis, who was ambling out to greet them.
“Are we too late?” March demanded.
“For what?” countered Loomis.
“Doc thought young Gillery might suffer a relapse,” said March. “I want to question him, Luke, because …”
“He’s sore and sorry for himself .” frowned the rancher, “but I don’t reckon he’s any sicker than when we patched that bullet-hole for him. Been sleepin’ steady, he has. Only reason he woke was he got thirsty.”
“What did you give him to drink?” demanded Russell.
“Glass of water,” shrugged Loomis, “with a slug of whisky in it.”
“If he’s going to survive the bullet-wound ...” Russell grinned wryly, “the whisky won’t harm him. All right, Luke, let’s go.”
A few moments later, they were entering the ground-floor bedroom. The rancher and the two lawmen stood clear of the bed, conversing in undertones while Russell examined Arch Gillery’s wounds.
“Concussion—no doubt on that score,” he cheerfully assured them.
The patient spoke up. It seemed his lengthy sleep had restored some of his spirit, because he bitterly complained of Russell, “How come you sound so happy—when I feel so bad?”
Russell didn’t answer until he had finished his careful inspection of Arch’s torso.
“I’m always happy, son, if a diagnosis comes easy. It’s the complicated cases that shorten my temper.”
“Well,” frowned Arch, “I’m glad you’re happy.”
“You said you feel bad,” Russell reminded him. “How bad—and where?”
“My head aches like ...”
“Sure. You couldn’t expect otherwise when you’re suffering concussion. What else?”
“Them bullet-holes smart gosh—awful—like they was afire.”
“It doesn’t hurt you to breathe?”
“No—it just smarts—like somebody was jabbin’ a hot poker clear through me.”
Arch complained sourly and with heat for some three or four minutes. As Russell put it, “The concussion must be mild—and it’s for sure there’s no infection, no blood-poisoning, otherwise he wouldn’t be so eager to run off at the mouth.”
“I ain’t runnin’ off at the mouth!” protested Arch. “I’m only tellin’ you …”
“Save all the telling for Sheriff March,” drawled Russell. “As soon as I’ve fixed you a fresh dressing and some bandages, he’ll want to ask you some questions.”
“Thanks for tendin’ me so good, Doc,” grunted Arch. And he had the good grace to add, “I guess I do run off at the mouth.”
“Hold still,” ordered Russell.
While he worked, the patient frowned past him at the impassive Luke Loomis and offered a few words of gratitude.
“Sure am beholden to you, Mr. Loomis. And—uh— I’ll ask you to pass on my thanks to them that patched me up—and the hombre that brought me in.”
“I’ll tell ’em,” Loomis promised. “All except the hombre that brought you in. Your brothers can thank him.”
“My—brothers?” prodded Arch.
“Sam Beech,” said Loomis, “has gone to Box G to explain things to your brothers. He figured you’d want ’em to know what happened to you. As for the J.P. you asked for ...”
“That’s been taken care of,” interrupted the sheriff. “You know Jonas Green, the lawyer. Sure. You’d know him. Well, he’ll send Ed Clifford down to Box G.”
Arch nodded thoughtfully, and opined, “I’m powerful lucky. Everybody treatin’ me so kindly and all. Dunno if I’d still be alive—if that Beech feller hadn’t found me. I was buzzard-bait—that’s for sure.”
“Got any more whisky in the house, Luke?” asked Russell, as he finished his chores.
“Plenty,” said Luke. “Why? Does young Gillery need another bracer?”
“Bring the bottle and five glasses,” grinned Russell. “We could all use a bracer.”
He replaced his instruments in his bag and made way for March, who toted a chair over beside the bed, straddled it and lit a cigar.
“All right now, young feller,” he grunted. “You and your brothers are as ornery a bunch as ever raised hell in my territory, but you’re still entitled to the protection of the law and a full investigation of this attempt on your life. You follow me, son, or am I talking too fast for you?”
“That’s okay, Sheriff,” mumbled Archer. “I savvy you good.”
“Fine,” said March. “Now—headache or no headache—concussion or no concussion—I want you to start remembering.”
“I guess you mean,” frowned Arch, “about them skunks that back-shot me.”
“I don’t mean how much turkey did you eat last Thanksgiving,” growled March.
“There was five of ’em,” Arch recalled. “Don’t ask me which one shot me. I wouldn’t know. It didn’t happen till after I told ’em goodbye and came ridin’ on.”
“You mean you had a conversation with these jaspers?”
“Sort of.” Arch went on to explain the circumstances of his encountering the five riders on the trail. “Then, after I dug the stone outa my prad’s hoof and give the knife back to this big redhead, why, I just hit the leather and told ’em goodbye. But I only rid a little ways ’fore I heard the shot and—and that was the last thing I heard—till I woke up down the bottom of the cliff. My prad was dead and I was—uh—achin’ all over. And this Sam hombre was talkin’ to me.”
“You were riding north when you met these strangers,” prodded March. “Were they travelling north too? Did they come up behind you—or toward you?”
“Toward me,” said Arch. “They was headed south.”
“Eli,” frowned the deputy. “He says one was a redhead—a big redhead. I reckon that’d be ...”
“Weems, most likely,” nodded March. “But he speaks of five riders, Josh, and that puzzles me.” He offered Arch a terse but accurate description of Holbrook, Clayburn and Billy Joe Hale, and won immediate response; Arch even remembered Holbrook’s scar. “All right, boy, you’re doing fine. I know those four hombres. But what about the fifth man? Have you ever seen him before?”
“I never saw any of ’em before,” muttered Arch.
“This fifth man—describe him,” said March.
“Oh—kinda average.” Archer squinted, trying to remember. “No. That ain’t so. He wasn’t really average at all. A real good-lookin’ hombre. A dude. Yeah. Fancy duds like an Easterner wears.”
“Like a tinhorn gambler, huh?” prodded Pardelow.
“Like that,” nodded Archer. “Only fancier. He was rigged rich.”
The sheriff was silent a while, searching his mind, trying to recall a local fitting that description. As it happened, he had never met Calvin Truscott.
“Who do you suppose he could be—this fifth feller?” asked Pardelow.
“Damned if I know,” frowned March.
Loomis rejoined them, hefting a quart of rye and five glasses. The deputy helped with the pouring and distribution. All five men drank slowly. March’s cigar was smoked halfway, when he asked the patient, “Did you do anything more than just borrow a knife from one of these men—pass the time of day with them?”
“That’s all,” Arch assured him.
“There wasn’t any argument?” demanded March. “Hell, boy, they had to have some reason for trying to kill you.”
“We was talkin’ along sociable, and that’s the gospel truth,” insisted Arch. “I swear to Betsy I just don’t savvy why they did it.”
“Talking sociable,” reflected the sheriff.
It was Pardelow, not March, who thought to ask:
“Who did most of the talkin’?”
“Oh—well ...” Archer grinned sheepishly, “I guess I did. Doc was right about me. I run off at the mouth.”
“What did you talk about?” asked March.
“About how I was headed for Byrne City to fetch a J.P.—and about Lucy Rose gettin’ hitched—and all that,” said Arch.
Thaddeus Russell interjected a note of levity.
“They got irritated. They were sick of the sound of Arch bending their ears—so one of them pulled a gun and shot him—just for the sheer pleasure of silencing him.” Upon noting the grim expression on the sheriff’s face, he shrugged and apologized, but with a grin. “All right, Eli, it was a poor joke.”
“I’m no killjoy, Doc,” muttered March. “It’s just I can’t see any humor in Holbrook—or one of his sidekicks—shooting this young feller in the back. There’s no humor to it—and it seems there’s no reason to it.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” argued his deputy. “I always say there’s a reason for everything.”
“I’ll be obliged,” declared March, “if somebody’ll give me one sane reason why this cowpoke had to be ambushed that way. It wasn’t robbery ...”
“Hell, no,” Arch gloomily agreed. “Us Gillerys is dirt-poor. That’s why Dewey hankers to get Lucy Rose wed. If she can get herself a husband ...”
“All right, boy, you don’t have to tell me,” sighed March. “I know about the terms of the Fullerton will.”
“You want another drink, Eli?” asked Loomis.
“Thanks—but no,” said the sheriff. “Josh and me will be riding now. I want to be at the place where it happened by the time the sun rises.”
“Right near Lampazo Bend,” offered Arch.
“You’re going to tag the Holbrook outfit?” frowned Russell.
“I don’t like mysteries, Doc,” said March. “Yes, I aim to follow Holbrook’s sign. Maybe that coyote is on a killing spree—maybe he’s gone loco. If he’s gonna take a shot at just anybody at all—like young Gillery here—the border country won’t be safe for man, woman or child.”
“Two of you mightn’t be enough,” frowned Loomis. “If you want, I’ll rouse up four good men and you can swear ’em in as special deputies.”
“Muchas gracias,” nodded March. “Rouse ’em out right now, Luke, because I’m ready to move.”