They held the fire to a small size, not just because dry wood was scarce and available only by seeking out the larger rocks and probing about beneath them, but also to avoid a repeat performance on the part of the outlaws; this time a rifle bullet could find a human target.
The evening meal over and the blankets hanging on the leeward side of the flames where a combination of smoke and heat was slowly accomplishing their drying, Starbuck seated himself within the limited fan of light and glanced to the sky. The overcast had broken to some extent and a few stars were visible, but the threat of more rain was still there.
He sighed heavily, hoped it would not come to pass; much more water pouring down upon the mountain would make the trail impassable and all their efforts to overtake the outlaws would go for nothing. Too, Walt Moody should be taken to a doctor as soon as possible; the medical attention he and Able Rome had provided was crude and only of an emergency nature at best.
He glanced at Walt Moody. He was hunched against a pine, head slung forward, arms cradled, apparently sleeping. He’d had a bad time of it, going over the cliff, walking for all that time with the injured arm uncared for and then withstanding the treatment necessary to accord it without uttering more than an occasional groan. He should be sent back to Wolf Crossing; he would be of little use to the posse, anyway. He’d talk to Brandon about it in the morning, Shawn decided.
Able Rome, his features reflecting the weariness that rode him, came up from where the horses had been picketed. Nodding to Shawn and Gilder, and glancing at the dozing Moody, he sat down, leaned forward to capture some of the fire’s warmth.
“Where is he—the marshal?” he asked after a time.
Gilder, scrubbing agitatedly at the stubble of whiskers on his chin, said, “Up the trail. Trying to spot them killers, I reckon.”
Rome grunted. “Surprised he didn’t want to keep moving.”
Only the exhausted condition of the horses had prevented the lawman from insisting on it, Starbuck guessed. Between the storm and Moody’s accident they had made little progress that day. Probably the realization that the outlaws could have done no better was the major factor in persuading him to lay over for the night.
Gilder turned his strained features to Shawn. “You figure there’s a chance we can catch up to them tomorrow and head back to town?”
“Could be. Don’t think they’re too far ahead.”
“God—I’m hoping so.” Dave Gilder muttered in an exhausted tone.
Rome picked up one of the empty cups setting nearby, filled it half full from the simmering pot of coffee and offered it to the trembling man.
“Ease off,” he said quietly.
Gilder took the cup, held it to his lips and gulped its contents, shivering uncontrollably.
“Thanks,” he murmured, and hunching forward, buried his face in cupped hands.
“Everybody’s got a problem,” Able observed quietly, shifting his eyes to Starbuck. “Comes with living, it seems.”
Shawn shrugged, and glanced up as Harry Brandon came down the short slope from the trail and stepped into the ring of firelight.
“Any sign?”
The lawman shook his head. “Naw—nothing, but they ain’t far. Can’t be, not with all this rain and the trail being in the shape it is.” He reached into his pocket, drew out the almost empty bottle of whiskey and took a long pull of it. “We’ll nail ’em in the morning.”
Dave Gilder stirred restlessly. A small sound escaped his throat. Shawn spoke up quickly.
“Be glad to go after them now—the two of us, if you figure it’s the thing to do.”
“No sense in it. Like I said before, they can’t do nothing but stick to this trail. Tomorrow’ll be soon enough.” The lawman moved in closer to the fire. Bottle in hand, he hunched. “Be a fool risk, anyways, trying to get to them in the dark.”
Starbuck watched Brandon take another swallow of liquor. He disagreed as to the merits of closing in on the outlaws under cover of night, but it was Brandon’s posse and the lawman had made it clear he was running it.
“There’s something I want to say,” the marshal continued, wiping his mouth with the back of a hand. “We see them, I want every man jack of you to open up—shoot. Don’t hold off.”
Shawn drew himself up slowly. “You’re not giving them a chance to throw down their guns?”
“Hell, no! Be a waste of breath. I know them birds—they won’t give up—and they’ll kill you if you don’t kill them first.”
“How about Starbuck’s brother?” Rome asked. “Ain’t he one of them?”
“Who knows—and I sure’n hell ain’t waltzing up to them and asking!”
“Then I will,” Shawn said, “or are you going to say now that it was all a lie to start with?”
Brandon wagged his head. “No, I wasn’t lying to you. One of them is Ben Snow—just like I told you.”
“Then I’m going to do some talking before there’s any shooting—”
“The hell you will!” Brandon shouted, his face hardening. “You’ll do what I tell you—all of you will! Now maybe one of them is your brother and maybe he ain’t, it don’t make no difference. They’re all killers and I ain’t taking no chances. I’m telling you again—and by God I’m heading up this posse—when we jump them, start shooting and shooting to kill. I make myself plain?”
Starbuck remained silent. There was still a strong doubt in his mind that Ben would be found with the outlaws, but the slim possibility that he could would not permit him to obey the lawman’s orders ... He’d simply wait, somehow find a way to make sure before it was too late.
“How’s the cripple doing?” Brandon asked then, jerking his thumb at Moody.
“Needs a doctor. Best you send him back to town in the morning.”
“He can wait,” the lawman said bluntly. “He’s got one good arm he can use. Besides, I expect we’ll all be heading back before the day’s over.”
“You’re mighty sure of them,” Able Rome said, studying the marshal closely.
Brandon tipped the bottle to his lips, swallowed, smiled. “Sure enough,” he replied, and lowering the container, gauged its contents. Little more than one drink remained. Still grinning, he turned to Dave Gilder. “And how’re you doing, mister?”
Gilder stirred helplessly. “Not—so good.”
“That so? Well, maybe you could use this here last swallow,” Brandon said, and leaning forward, waved the bottle in front of the man’s nose.
Gilder jerked back, face contorted, eyes bright. “No—well, I can’t—”
“Slop it down! Sure won’t hurt none.”
“Trying not—been fighting it—”
“Ain’t nothing better for a man on a cold, wet night.” Dave squirmed, turned his head. His mouth was working convulsively and there was a wildness to him.
“All yours—if you want it,” Brandon said in a taunting voice. “And there ain’t no more this side of the Crossing!”
Starbuck, unable to endure the torture Brandon was putting Gilder through any further, came to his feet. His hand swept down, struck the bottle, knocked it from the lawman’s grasp, sent it shattering on the rocks.
Eyes flaring with anger, Brandon sprang upright. “What the hell you think you’re doing?” he demanded.
Shawn’s cold gaze locked with the lawman’s. “You want to play games, try me.”
Brandon’s hulking figure hung motionless against the darkness for a long moment, and then his thick shoulders came down. He forced a smile, brushed at his mustache, nodded.
“Just having a little fun with the sot ... Not meaning no harm.”
“That kind of fun we can do without,” Starbuck replied, and turned to the blankets, stirring in the fresh breeze.
The woolen covers had dried. Pulling them off the ropes, he tossed one to Rome, another to Dave Gilder, and then crossing to Moody, laid the third on the sleeping man’s knees. Walt roused, stared about numbly, and then taking the blanket, drew it about himself.
Shawn retraced his steps to the line, collected the remaining covers, and draping one over his shoulder, handed the other to the lawman.
“We heading out early?” he asked, settling down.
“Sunrise,” the marshal said and crossed to the opposite side of the fire where he could be to himself.
Dave Gilder hugged his blanket tighter to his body and shivered, but it was not from the night’s cold; rather, it came from an inner chill. He shifted his feverish eyes to the bits of broken glass scattered around the stones he had arranged for the fire. The strong smell of whiskey still hung in the air, tantalizing, taunting him cruelly.
God, how he had wanted that drink—and Brandon had known the depth of his need!
But Starbuck—damn him, too—had snatched it away from him just as he was about to give in, surrender to the raving, unholy thirst that was ravaging him from scalp to toe.
He’d wanted it in the worst way—and he hadn’t wanted it, knowing that once that first drop had slid down his throat he would be off once more—lost again. But wasn’t it better to be lost and alive—than dead?
He groaned, again clutched at the blanket as he glanced about at the sleeping men around him. They didn’t know what it was like, this whiskey fever that possessed him. They maybe thought they did, but no man could really know unless he’d been through it himself. And that goddam Brandon, that stinking, lousy excuse for a lawman, teasing him the way he had! The smell of the whiskey when he’d held it under his nose had almost turned him inside out. He wished now he’d made a grab for it, gulped it down before Brandon could snatch it away—if that’s what he intended to do—and likely it was.
What the hell was the use of fighting it? He’d never lick it, never win. No matter how hard and often he’d tried, he always found himself waking up one day with all the demons in hell running loose inside his head, gut-sick and more dead than alive.
The real answer, he guessed, lay not in waking up someday, just passing out in the back of some saloon and never coming out of it ... But that meant never seeing Felicity and the boys again and he’d not been able to get that hope out of his mind.
He supposed that was the one reason for the continual warfare that half of him waged with the other half—that solitary, shining hope that someday it would all be as it had once been; but was keeping alive that hope worth the price he was paying? Right now he doubted it and that disturbed him, for never before had any such uncertainty filtered into his mind.
Was he slipping farther down, going deeper into the black morass of alcoholic nothingness? Was he losing sight of the only things that meant something to him?
Exhausted beyond the point of needing sleep, Dave Gilder stirred, shakily reached for the cup Able Rome had handed him earlier. Maybe another swallow or two of Starbuck’s black, bitter coffee would stifle the torment within him.
A tremor shook him. A small portion of the broken bottle lay near the blackened pot in its curve a teaspoon or so of golden liquid winked up at him.
He let the cup fall, extended a forefinger toward the bit of glass ... Just a taste, that’s all he wanted—all he needed. It would quiet his nerves, let him settle down. Yes, just a taste ... It wouldn’t hurt ...
An anguished sound burst from his lips. His hand swept down, fingers scooping through the ashes and bits of charred twigs, sent it showering over the curve of glass and its tempting contents. And then folding his arms across his knees, Dave Gilder lowered his head and wept like a child.