Bart Crawford’s grim words hammered at Jordan’s brain—dead or alive! They were giving him no chance at all, no opportunity to prove his innocence. Crawford had determined only that the chase would end here. The corners of Ben Jordan’s mouth hardened, a whiteness began to show along the edge of his jaw as anger swept through him. Dead or alive—he would have something to say about that. Sure, he had let both Walt Woodward and Al Sharpe make a fool of him, but now he was in a position to rectify his mistakes. And whether Crawford and his men liked it or not, they were going to help him do it.
He raised himself cautiously. Crawford was off his horse, stood only a few paces away. He was facing the opposite way, having his close look at the sorrel’s gear, apparently hopeful of finding the stolen money hidden about the saddle. Beyond him, still mounted, were Aaron, Gates, Davis, and Oran Bishop. Jordan drew his pistol. He would have to move fast. The instant he stepped from the brush he would reveal himself to the four riders. Everything depended on his reaching Crawford, jamming his gun into the man’s back, and forcing the others to hold their fire.
“What about that cabin over yonder?” Gates said. “Could be he’s holed up in there.”
“And leave his horse standing out here like this?” Crawford answered, his tone derisive. “No, he won’t be doing that. Place don’t look much like anybody’s been near it for years.”
“Still figure we ought to look.”
Ben Jordan, like a dark, shifting shadow, moved from the depths of the brush suddenly. In three strides he was crowding in behind Crawford and had his revolver digging into the man’s spine.
“Hey … look out!” Gates exclaimed, startled. His hand swept downward for the weapon at his hip.
The others stared and then came to life. Jordan’s sharp words froze them on their saddles.
“Don’t try anything … not unless you want me to blow his guts out!” Crawford, swearing in a deep angry voice, slowly raised his hands. Ben reached forward, pulled the lawman’s weapon from its holster, and thrust it into his own belt. “Keep looking in that direction,” he ordered. “I’ve got some talking to do.”
Crawford only grunted. Oran Bishop, his face red, his eyes snapping, said: “You damned owlhoot! Knew there was something wrong the moment you rode into Ashburn’s. You ought to be right pleased with yourself, fooling that old man like you did.”
“I didn’t try to fool him.”
“Hell you didn’t! And if I could have found those saddlebags you were so proud of, I …”
Then it had been Bishop who searched his quarters. And Colby would have been the rider in the hills who kept watch. “You don’t know what it’s all about, Oran. Just shut up and listen,” Jordan snapped.
“You’ve got nothing to say I want to hear.”
“You’ll hear it anyway … and I’m warning you all once more … make a wrong move and Crawford’s a dead man. That clear?”
There was a long moment of silence, and then Crawford said: “Come on, come on, get it over with. What’s on your mind?”
“Just this,” Ben said, “I never stole that money.”
Crawford laughed, a low, forced chuckle. “Don’t give me that. I seen you, watched you ride off on that sorrel. All of us did, except Bishop there.”
“Wasn’t me you saw. That horse and the jacket I’m wearing belonged to a man named Woodward. Found him in a shack, dying.”
“And now you’re telling me he handed over a pair of saddlebags loaded with twenty thousand dollars of the bank’s money …?”
“He did, but he didn’t say it was hold-up money. Claimed he got it from selling some property.”
“And was on his way home when some outlaws, meaning us, jumped him. That it?”
“Just what he said. He was shot up pretty bad. Made me promise to deliver the money to his wife here in Langford, personally. That’s what I’ve been trying to do.”
“How’s it happen you’re forking his horse and wearing his brush jacket?” Cleve Aaron asked skeptically.
“Lost mine in a storm. Horse went over a cliff in the Mogollon Mountains with all I owned tied on the saddle. I was afoot when I ran into Woodward.”
Again there was silence. Oran Bishop spoke first. “You expect us to swallow a yarn like that?”
Jordan swore impatiently. “I don’t give a damn what you think … it’s the truth. And if I thought it was important enough, I could take you back to where my buckskin is laying dead, halfway down a cañon slope. I can show you where I buried Woodward. But it’s not important.”
“What’s important,” Crawford broke in, “is the money. Where is it?”
“I haven’t got it.”
“Haven’t got it!” Gates echoed. “What in the hell did you do …?”
“I was on my way to hand it over to Woodward’s widow, like I promised. Three men stopped me at the edge of town. They’d been watching for Woodward, and when they saw his horse, they figured something was wrong. Anyway they stopped me. One of them flashed a deputy marshal badge and said he was the law. He took the money, said he would turn it over to Missus Woodward.”
“Did he?” Crawford asked in a low, tight voice.
“No … and he’s not a lawman. I just found that out.”
“Not a deputy?” Crawford said, turning around slowly.
“He’s an outlaw, same as the two men with him. They’re together now. Woodward’s widow is with them. They’ve got the money.”
Crawford’s dark, intense face showed interest. “Where?”
“Wait a minute, Marshal,” Bishop said. “You ain’t falling for this yarn he’s handing us, are you? It’s ten to one he’s cooking up a scheme to get you off his tail so’s he can keep going with that money.”
“He sure don’t have it on him now,” Crawford answered. “And I reckon a man could get himself tangled into a mess, like he claims.”
“Only thing I’m interested in is clearing my name,” Jordan said. “Give me your word there’ll be no charges against me, and I’ll help you nail the outlaws and get the bank’s money back.”
At once Crawford said: “Don’t see why there’d be any reason to hold you, was you to do that. Far as I’m concerned, it would prove you’re telling the truth. Where is that bunch and the money?”
Jordan said: “Then we’ve got a deal?”
“We have. Now where …?”
“In that shack,” Ben said, handing Crawford his pistol. “They’re all there, even the woman.”
“For hell’s sake,” Gates muttered in an amazed voice. “That close?”
“How do you know?” Bishop demanded, still far from convinced.
“That’s where I’ve been, listening to them talk. They figure to ride out after dark.”
“Only three of them, you said,” Cleve Aaron remarked. “Won’t be no trouble breakin’ in and takin’ over.”
“Wouldn’t be easy,” Jordan said. “Couple of us are bound to get killed. And, like I told you, Missus Woodward’s in there, too. Be smarter to wait until they come out. Not long now until dark.”
“Surround the place,” Gates suggested. “Maybe they’d throw out their guns and quit.”
“Not them … not with twenty thousand dollars at stake. They’d fight and shooting would bring half the town running out here,” Crawford said, shaking his head. “Never like outsiders hanging around at a time like this. Always somebody getting shot accidental. I figure Jordan’s got the best idea. We’ll wait.”