The task of locating the Box Five headquarters was made easy for Jim Rand; he needed only to ride toward the ominous sounds carried to him on the night breeze, the steady clatter of rifle-fire, the harsh roaring of shotguns, the sullen booming of .45’s.
As he approached, riding fast and hunched low in his saddle, more than one wild slug came whining his way. He slid his Winchester from its scabbard and turned the charcoal toward a stand of cottonwood some short distance from the Box Five harness-shack. Behind that shack, Deputy Matthews, Platt and another man had taken up their stakeout position. Platt was sprawled on the shack-roof, cutting loose with a shotgun. Matthews was crouched at the right rear corner of the shack, the other man at the left.
Suddenly conscious of Jim’s presence, Adam turned to frown at him. The big man had tethered his horse in the copse with the other animals and had dared the booming guns of the outlaws by dashing to the shack across an open stretch. Adam guessed his identity at once; he hadn’t forgotten that the man who had started out to track the train-robbers was wearing a head-bandage.
“I guess you just have to be Rand,” was his muttered greeting.
“And you?” asked Jim, as he rammed a shell into the breech of his rifle.
“Matthews,” said Adam. “Deputy-sheriff.”
“How big a posse is this?” Jim demanded.
“Eight, counting myself,” said Adam. “I have two men wounded so far, but they aren’t hurt so bad they can’t fight.”
“Just flesh wounds?”
“That’s all. One of them is around back. Another is planted this side of the corral.”
“This is the Box Five spread—of course.”
Jim made it a statement rather than a query: Adam glanced at him again. He had to raise his voice now, because the clamor of gunfire was increasing.
“You bet it’s Box Five, Mr. Rand. We found out the Box Five boss—hombre name of Farnsworth—is the coyote that led the raid on the northbound.”
“Sure,” nodded Jim. “I know.”
“You know?” challenged Adam.
“You might as well take this now,” said Jim. He dug the folded sheet of paper from his pocket and offered it to the deputy. “It’s a confession. I coaxed it out of a Triangle waddy name of McDade.”
“Holy smoke!” breathed Adam. “The Triangle outfit was in cahoots with Box Five?”
“That’s how it stacks up,” nodded Jim. He inched around behind the deputy, took aim at a window and cut loose, triggering three shots in rapid succession. There was an answering hail of lead. Bullets kicked splinters out of the shack’s rear corner, forcing Jim and the deputy to huddle lower. “I found the jasper I killed during the raid on the train. They’d buried him in a box canyon.”
“That leaves four Triangle guns,” frowned Adam.
“Two,” Jim corrected. “Both hogtied and sleeping drunk. Their sidekicks kind of argued with me—at gunpoint.”
“Deputy!” called the man crouched at the other corner. “I’ll tell you what we ought to do! Why don’t we smoke ’em out—set fire to the house ...?”
“It’s bad enough we have to shoot it out with ’em this way, Wilkie,” retorted Adam. “If we smoked ’em out, we won’t have clear targets. You’re forgetting about the chuck-boss and his wife. They’re old. They can’t move fast. Either or both of ’em could get caught in the line of fire.”
“The Baxters are as crooked as the rest of ’em,” scowled the sharp-featured Wilkie. “And they ain’t so old they couldn’t get clear.”
“They’d get clear,” said Adam, “so long as none of my trigger-happy volunteers mistake ’em for Box Five gun-hawks. No siree, Wilkie, there’ll be no burning. We’re gonna keep ’em pinned down until they run out of ammunition.”
“The hell with that,” complained Wilkie. “They must have a damn-blasted arsenal in there—the way they’re throwin’ lead at us!”
“The trouble with being a lawman only twenty-two years old,” Adam quietly confided to Jim, “is all the older men think they’re wiser than you.”
“How about the chuck-boss and his wife?” demanded Jim.
“The Baxters are old and ornery,” muttered Adam, “and you can bet they were hoping to collect their share of the loot. But I still wouldn’t burn that ranch-house. Moredo County law doesn’t make war on women—not even a fire-eating old witch like Chloe Baxter.” He threw another glance toward the corner that had been Wilkie’s position. “What the hell ...?”
“Young Adam!” called Platt, from atop the roof. “We better cover for Wilkie! Looks like he hankers to get himself killed!”
Wilkie had broken cover and was dashing toward the barn. As he ran, he fanned a burst from his Colt, scattering lead about the front of the ranch-house. Jim, Adam and Platt added the weight of their guns and, while Wilkie hustled across the yard, the din of shooting increased to thunderous volume.
“He’s made it to the barn,” observed Adam. “And now what? I wonder—damn his hide—if he tries to set fire to that ranch-house, I’ll ...!” He risked death by exposing himself, the better to admonish the man in the barn. “Wilkie—you mind what I told you ...!”
Jim reached up, seized Adam by his shirt-collar and hauled backwards and downwards—and not a moment too soon. For the second time that evening, Deputy Matthews felt the air-wind of a bullet.
“That one had your name on it,” growled Jim. “Don’t do that again, young feller. Keep your head down.”
“You—sound like a man used to giving orders,” said Adam.
“I was a sergeant in the cavalry,” Jim told him.
“I believe you,” declared Adam, with a rueful grin. “I sure do believe you.” And then, as Platt called to him again, his grin faded. “What did you say?”
“It’s a firebrand,” yelled Platt. “Wilkie must’ve found some coal-oil in the barn. He just now hurled a firebrand up to the ranch-house roof—and now it’s caught afire!”
“Hold your fire!” Adam called to his men. Then, when their shooting had subsided, he yelled to the defenders of the ranch-house. “Farnsworth—Wesson—and the rest of you in there! Listen to me! The roof’s afire! In a couple minutes the whole house will be a death-trap! Send the old folks out, Farnsworth!”
Inside the house, while the aged Jake and Chloe Baxter were taking refuge under a bed, and while four of the desperadoes resumed shooting from the front windows, Farnsworth, Wesson and the man who called himself Keefe held a brief council of war. They were crouched under the rear parlor window. Farnsworth’s left arm was crooked about the grain sack containing the valuables stolen from the passengers on the northbound.
“Matthews isn’t fooling,” he quietly pointed out. “The roof is afire.”
“Damn right,” grunted Wesson, “and all of a sudden I’m glad we never off saddled our horses.”
“I’ve been watching,” offered the tinhorn, “and it’s my hunch they still haven’t found those horses.” He raised himself slightly, scanned the area to the rear of the house, paying special attention to a clump of mesquite. “Gil, I’d swear none of them are anywhere near the brush. What’s more, there’s a helluva lot of smoke out there.”
Farnsworth rose up to take a look, and swiftly made his decision. The smoke was thickening. Clouds of it were penetrating into the parlor and kitchen, and the draught created by the smashed windows was carrying it into the front yard.
“Keep ’em busy, boys!” he yelled to the four men trading shots with the posse. “When I give you the word, hustle out front and head for the corrals! It’s gonna be every man for himself.”
“And us for us—eh, Gil?” chuckled Wesson.
“Well?” challenged Keefe. “What’re we waiting for?”
“I don’t know how any of them could spot us through all that smoke,” muttered Farnsworth. “All right. We couldn’t pick a better time than right now.”
He was first to clamber through the window. Toting the sack, running bent double with his Colt ready in his right fist, he made his dash through the mist of smoke to the mesquite clump and the saddled horses. Wesson and the tinhorn climbed out and dashed after him. The air was still filled with the din of gunfire and, just as they reached the brush, they were sighted and challenged by a posse man armed with a shotgun. Farnsworth whined and fired, and the shotgun discharged skyward as its owner collapsed.
Out front, from his vantage point atop the harness-shack, Platt yelled a warning to all his colleagues.
“They’re comin’ out—but they’re comin’ shootin’!”
The four hardcases, suddenly discovering that they had been abandoned by their employer, had panicked and were spilling out into the front yard. Rashly they retained their guns—and used them. As they darted toward the corrals, shooting fast, Wilkie downed one from his stake-out in the barn entrance. Platt accounted for another. Jim traded shots with the third and, with a well-aimed bullet, put his gun-arm out of action. The fourth dropped his gun and raised his arms.
By now, a side wall was ablaze and the center section of the roof was beginning to cave in. Jim and Adam both broke cover, as the posse man wounded by Farnsworth came stumbling into the front yard—brightly illuminated by the dancing flames.
“You won’t find Farnsworth or the other two inside!” he called to the deputy. “Farnsworth shot me—and then all three of ’em hightailed it away toward the north trail.”
“Who were the other two?” demanded Adam.
“One of ’em was Rocky Wesson—the ramrod,” said the wounded man. “The other jasper was rigged like a tinhorn. I never saw him before ...”
“Lucas and Bilbow!” yelled Adam. “Lend me a hand. The Baxters are still in there. If we don’t get ’em out fast ...!”
“Go ahead, Deputy,” said Jim, as he turned away. “You do what you have to do—and I’ll do what I have to do.”
His pulse quickened, as he hurried to the cottonwoods. Here was the chance he had sought ever since his quitting San Marco months before, a chance to get to grips with the elusive Jenner. He untethered the black, swung astride and hustled it out of the trees, moving northward at speed.
Old Jake Baxter and his wife had plenty to be thankful for; Deputy Matthews and two of his volunteers rescued them from the burning building exactly one minute before the walls collapsed inward. The deputy, unmindful of his singed hair and blackened clothing, then announced his intention of going after the three fugitives.
The north trail proved to be serpentine for the first half-mile. It occurred to Jim that, had Farnsworth and his cronies thought to pause a while and take cover, they could ambush him as he rounded any of the dozen or more bends in that winding trail.
He won his first clear view of them—and vice versa—when the trail ceased to wind and extended in a straight line across a three-mile expanse of flat terrain.
He dug in his heels and the black surged forward at breakneck speed, and Farnsworth’s ramrod chose that moment to glance back over his shoulder.
“Somebody taggin’ us!”
Farnsworth glanced back.
“Only one of ’em. We’ll handle him easily.”
A moment later, Jim slid his Winchester from its scabbard and released his rein. He no longer wore the uniform of a cavalryman, but he would attack as a cavalryman; old habits die hard. The charcoal carried him along at breakneck speed, slowly but surely closing the gap separating him from his quarry, as he readied the Winchester for action and got off three fast shots.
Those whining slugs, coming so perilously close to the fleeing trio, goaded them to retaliation. They opened fire with their revolvers, but it was soon obvious that they could never hope to halt their pursuer under these conditions. Wesson cursed at the memory of their having left their rifles behind.
“Only way to stop this galoot,” he called to Farnsworth and Keefe, “is for one of us to haul up and wait for him to get closer. A man on his feet stands a better chance of triggering a sure shot than a man on a fast horse.”
“I’m reloading!” bellowed Farnsworth. “How about you, Keefe?”
“I’ll have to reload, too,” complained Keefe.
“All right,” nodded Wesson. “You keep movin’. I’ll catch up with you after I shake this hombre off our tail.”
Jim saw one of the riders jerking his mount to a slithering halt. He knew what to expect next, and was ready to cope with it. Again he rose in his stirrups. The Winchester barked twice and the bullets kicked up alkali-puffs about the darting, dodging Wesson and, very soon, he was in range of Wesson’s .45. Wesson was on one knee, his bent left arm held level with his chin, the barrel of his Colt resting on it, when Jim fired again. It was fast, because it had to be, and the bullet struck its mark with deadly accuracy, hurling Wesson backward. The Colt discharged, but too late to impede the advancing black or its rider. They hurtled past the sprawled and lifeless Wesson.
Glancing sideways at Keefe, Farnsworth sensed that the gambler was in the grip of cold panic. Keefe had holstered his pistol and seemed concerned only with spurring the utmost speed from his racing horse. Farnsworth, on the other hand, was weighing his chances of outrunning their pursuer.
His Colt held five live shells. One of them he triggered at the tall man on the charging charcoal, but wildly, and still Jim came on. White-hot anger boiled within Farnsworth now. He was thinking of the large sack slung to his mount’s saddlehorn, of the wealth it contained and of his chances of escaping to a life of leisure. This was incentive—more than enough incentive—for him to make sure of his pursuer. The man had to be stopped. He re-cocked, twisted in his saddle and extended his gun-arm, keeping it rigid as he fired again and again. A bullet missed Jim by a full ten inches. He retaliated with the last two shots from his Winchester, triggering one at Farnsworth, the other at the man on the hard-running sorrel, who was now some twenty yards ahead of Farnsworth. He missed Farnsworth, but not the gambler. The way the gambler shuddered and slumped forward in his saddle convinced, him that he had scored. But it was all too obvious that the wound wasn’t serious. The tinhorn was still in his saddle, still capable of handling his rein.
And now his Winchester was empty, and he was forced to devote all his attention to the irate Farnsworth. He slid the rifle back into its sheath, drew his Colt and was suddenly certain that Farnsworth’s pistol was empty. Farnsworth had triggered his last shot—why else would he attempt to halt his pursuer by hurling the weapon? The six-gun hurtled over Jim’s head, as Jim drew level with the racing chestnut.
“Haul up!” he ordered. “I’ve never gunned an unarmed man—but ...!”
He hadn’t expected that the boss-thief would resort to such dangerous acrobatics, so he was taken by surprise.
Farnsworth had released his rein and, with both hands, was grabbing for his left arm, leaning out of his saddle, snarling curses at him. He struck at Farnsworth with his Colt, but that action, coupled with Farnsworth’s dragging at his left arm, only served to pull him off-balance. He slid his boots from his stirrups; if he was to fall, he didn’t relish being dragged by the black stallion, one foot still adhering to its stirrup. He lost his grip on his Colt, but instinctively grasped at Farnsworth’s coat with his right hand. If he was to fall, so would Farnsworth.
He heard Farnsworth’s startled yell and the ground seemed to rush up to meet him. He was falling in the small space separating the two horses, and the impact was devastating. When he fell, he spun crazily, somersaulting, then rolling over and over with his senses reeling and the oblivion reaching for him, claiming him, possessing him ...
~*~
The first voice he heard upon regaining consciousness was irritating, but familiar.
“Saludos, Amigo Jim. Como esta usted?”
Typical, Jim reflected. Who else but Benito could greet him with such a trite question, and with such infuriating good cheer? “How are you?” How, indeed!
He opened his eyes, glowered at the leering Mex through a red haze of pain and mumbled:
“Right now I’d gladly trade my head for yours—and that’s saying plenty—considering you’re the ugliest little so-and-so I’ve ever known.”
“He will live,” Benito promptly assured Jim’s other visitors. “I know him well. His insults are as spirited as ever, and this is a good sign. It means he is much healthy.”
“I beg to differ—Doctor Espina.” The bald, bespectacled man spoke with heavy sarcasm. “To describe your friend as being healthy would be somewhat of an exaggeration.”
The room was white-walled and hot, despite the breeze wafting in from a nearby window. Benito stood at the foot of the bed, showing seventy percent of his crooked teeth in a bantering grin. Also present, in addition to the doctor, were a radiantly-smiling Maria Castaldez, a broad-grinning Deputy Matthews and another lawman, an older man whom Jim had never seen before. He assumed this one to be Adam’s superior. Adam proved his assumption accurate by saying:
“I’d like to have you meet my boss—Phil Dagget, county sheriff.”
“Hello, Rand,” frowned Dagget. “I’m here to offer you my thanks—and a lot more.”
“You’re welcome,” grunted Jim. And then, suddenly conscious that he was almost naked under the sheet that covered his bulky frame, he won a giggle from Maria by demanding of the doctor, “Where are my pants? I have to get the heck out of here ...!”
“Not a chance,” said the doctor, bluntly.
“Now look ...” Jim said his piece while surreptitiously investigating his injuries with a bandaged hand. His torso was tightly bound. A turban of bandaging adorned his head. But his limbs were devoid of splints. For this he was humbly grateful. “Now look—the man I’m hunting was riding ahead of Farnsworth just before I ...”
“That would be the third man,” nodded Adam, “the third of the three that escaped from Box Five after Wilkie set fire to the house. He’s the only one that got away, Jim. You stopped Wesson—and you certainly stopped Farnsworth.”
“Yeah—sure,” said Jim. “Well, if somebody’ll bring me my duds, I’ll be on my way …”
“You’ll be on your way,” frowned the doctor, “but not until I have officially discharged you from this clinic.”
“In case you don't realize it, Rand,” said Dagget, “you’re in the Moredo County Infirmary. This is Doc Everett. He’s done a fine job of taking care of you—ever since Adam found you and brought you in.”
“You said ever since Adam brought me in.” Jim stared hard at the sheriff. “How long ago was that?”
“This is Tuesday morning,” shrugged Dagget. “Foundation Day was Saturday—so figure it out for yourself.”
“I’ve been here that long?” gasped Jim. “Well—why in blazes didn’t somebody wake me up?”
“Ever hear of concussion?” Everett dryly enquired. “I’ve known concussion cases stay delirious for five or six days or more. You can be grateful your skull wasn’t fractured.”
“Well—damnitall ...” began Jim.
“I’d be failing in my duty,” said Everett, “if I turned you loose before I was absolutely sure you were cured. Concussion doesn’t have to develop into a critical illness. A lot depends on the patient’s attitude, his urge to be up and about again. Now, in your case, I’d say there’s a strong chance you’ll be on your feet in a week.”
“A whole seven days?” Jim eyed him aghast.
“There’s more than concussion, my friend,” the doctor patiently explained. “There are multiple abrasions.”
“Jim sighed heavily and slumped back on his pillows. “I winged him,” he grunted. “I’m sure of that. So—maybe he won’t travel so far that I can’t catch up with him.”
“Wesson and Farnsworth weren’t quite as lucky,” offered Adam.
“Farnsworth,” Jim supposed, “would be the jasper that tried to pull me off my horse—and brought the both of us down.”
“The same fall that caused your concussion,” said Dagget, “broke Farnsworth’s neck.” He produced a thick envelope, laid it on the table beside the bed. “Rand, you’ll find one thousand American dollars in there.”
“Wh-what ...?” blinked Jim.
“All those Mex cattlemen and their womenfolk,” said Dagget, “were mighty grateful. Every piece of jewelry, every stolen peso, was returned to its rightful owner. Some of those jewels were family heirlooms, you know? Only natural the hacendados would appreciate what you did.” He nodded in farewell, as he retreated to the door.
After the sheriff had departed, his deputy grinned and winked at Jim, slid an arm about Maria’s waist and announced: “We’re gonna get married. How about that?”
“I didn’t—uh—even know you were acquainted,” frowned Jim.
“We got acquainted in a hurry,” chuckled Adam. “I had quite a hassle with Maria’s father—and with the Sharkeys—but I finally made my point. Old man Sharkey didn’t relish the idea of Stew getting hitched to a girl who hated his innards.”
“I told them so!” declared Maria, with passionate intensity. “I sent the message to my padre by the telegrafo. He came to Moredo and there was much trouble.”
“Threatened to kill herself, she did,” said Adam. “The whole doggone ruckus ended up with Don Diego and old Art darn near weeping on each other’s shoulders. They decided Maria just doesn’t deserve to have a husband as elegant as Stew—so she’ll have to settle for a no-account deputy-sheriff.”
He grinned and winked again, and, despite his aching head, Jim managed to grin and wink back at him. After he offered his congratulations, Maria bent over him, planted a kiss on his cheek and whispered, “I have forgotten about San Francisco. I will stay here and be a good wife for Adam. You need not worry about Benito, I have forgiven him because, in his own strange way, he tried to protect me here in Moredo.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re marrying a man you want to marry,” he muttered. “Like I said before, I don’t approve of marriages of convenience.”
“I’ll arrange for you to take some nourishment,” the doctor told him, on his way to the door. “As for your visitors, I think it’s time they left. They can pay you another visit later.”
“Whatever you say, Doc,” nodded Adam, as he took Maria’s arm.
The last to leave the room was Benito. For a few moments, he stood near the head of the bed, one hand braced against the small table, the other clutching his sombrero to his chest.
“I give thanks that you are alive, my close and dear friend,” he declared, “and I will wait with patience until you are strong enough to ride again—and then we will hunt this evil hombre together, this villano who killed your brother.”
“Sure,” nodded Jim. “We’ll be on our way again soon enough. No matter how far he travels, I’ll stay after him.”
“Bueno.” The little Mex nodded approvingly.
He turned and strutted to the door and was about to open it when Jim called to him.
“Come back a minute, little feller. There’s something I have to tell you.”
“Si?” Benito returned to him and, in obedience to his beckoning finger, leaned close.
His face fell, as Jim delved into his sash with his good right hand and extracted the bulging and still-sealed envelope containing the thousand dollars presented by the grateful owners of the recovered jewelry. Jim tucked the envelope under his pillows, studied the swarthy countenance impassively and declared, “I have to tell you that, if you ever pull that kind of a trick on me again, I’ll kick your skinny butt so hard you won’t squat for a month.”
“Not to be trusted—by one’s closest and dearest friend …” Benito stepped back from the bed, shrugged helplessly and heaved a sigh, “this is a sad thing.”
“Vamoose,” growled Jim.
“I go,” nodded Benito. “But I will be ready to ride with you—when you are strong enough.”
“That’s a cheering thought,” Jim sarcastically jibed.
But he was grinning, when Benito moved out and closed the door.