The others dismounted, led their horses into the dense brush, and tied them. Crawford held back until they were again at his side.
“We’ll move up, close as we can to the door,” he said. “Best we spread out, cover it from all angles. Now, keep low. Don’t want them spotting us.”
They slipped off into the tangled growth, circling to the east until they were directly opposite the cabin. They paused there briefly, then worked their way up to the edge of the tall weeds, rocks, and scrubby bushes. No more than thirty feet of open yard now separated them from the doorway through which the outlaws would soon come.
Crawford, with whispers and gestures, placed his men at short intervals. Aaron was at the extreme left, then Arlie Davis, and Crawford. Next in the line was Oran Bishop, flanked by Jordan. Gates was at the right end.
“I’ll give the word,” Crawford said, hunkering on his heels. “Everybody wait for it.”
“I’m wonderin’,” Gates murmured, “is there a back door?”
Crawford glanced at Ben. “How about it?”
Jordan shook his head, saying: “Only a small window. Could be a door around the side.”
“Take a look,” Crawford ordered, ducking his head at Gates. “See where they got their horses, too.”
Gates made no answer but, on hands and knees, crawled off through the brush. He was back in only a few minutes.
“Ain’t no door,” he said in a hushed voice. “Just this one here in front. Three horses standin’ in a corral behind the shack.”
“Supposed to be four,” Arlie Davis said.
“The woman walked here from her place,” Ben said. “I followed her. She and Sharpe figure to ride double until they get a mount for her.”
“Somebody’s comin’ out,” Gates warned softly.
The door opened wide. Tubo Frick blocked the doorway. He glanced at the sky, judging the hour.
Crawford muttered: “Frick … that lousy tinhorn.”
Jordan looked at the lawman. “Know him?”
Crawford nodded. “A long time. Probably know the others, too. Same as I knew Woodward.”
Frick turned about, went into the cabin, and closed the door. The low rumble of words coming from the dark interior of the shack ceased.
Ben felt Bishop’s eyes upon him, twisted about to face the cowpuncher. “You convinced now I’m telling the truth? This proof enough?”
Bishop shrugged. “Could be you figure you’ve got yourself in a jam. This would be a smart way out.”
Impatience sharpened Jordan’s words. “You don’t make much sense. What would I get out of it? The bank will have its money back and I’ll …”
“You’ll save your own neck.”
Jordan spat in disgust. “You’re a plain fool, Oran. I wondered why Tom Ashburn didn’t turn that job of ramrodding over to you. Now I know.”
“Damn’ good thing for you I didn’t find those saddlebags that night,” Bishop retorted. “I’d have had you dead to rights then … could have proved to Ashburn what I suspected.”
“Or would you have grabbed them and run?” Ben suggested softly, deliberately baiting the man.
“Run … with the money? Why, damn you, I …”
“Forget it,” Bart Crawford snapped. “You talk much louder and they’ll be hearing you.”
There was silence after that, broken only by the dry clack of insects, the chirping of birds in the trees, and the low cooing of doves. Over in the direction of Langford a dog was barking, and somewhere on a road to the north of the settlement the drum of a hard-running horse could be heard.
The minutes wore on, merged into an hour. As the sun lowered, tension mounted gradually within Ben Jordan. He could see the effects of the long wait putting its mark on Oran Bishop, also. But if it were being noted and felt by Crawford and his three men, there was no indication. They were old hands at it, he guessed. Likely this was far from the first such experience for them. And it was not too different from certain days and nights in the Barranca Negra. There had been times when he, with his father and a few friends, had lain in wait for an expected raid by Mexican bandits. And later, after the death of his father, he had faced such danger without the reassuring presence of his parent. But somehow it was different here. There were only strangers around him, men he did not know and therefore was unaware of their abilities—and reliability, if something went wrong. He wished now he could have some of those who had sided with him during the black nights he had sweated out in the Sonora desert: Felipe Alvarez, Jésus Calderon, Old Manuel, Cristobal Lopez—Mexicans all, he realized suddenly, yet he would have felt more at ease with them than the gringos—these men of his own race, crouched near him. But there should be no trouble here. They were six to Sharpe’s three, if you didn’t count Olivia Woodward. Sharpe would recognize the futility of bucking such odds, and when called upon to throw down his guns, he would be smart enough to comply. And Frick and Rosen would follow his lead.
“Sun’s gone,” Cleve Aaron said laconically. “They ought to be comin’ out.”
Crawford said: “Be ready. Have your guns out. You know what to do when I give the word.”
“We’re just waitin’,” Aaron replied.
Ben Jordan fastened his eyes upon the closed door. He wished the outlaws would appear, surrender, and get the affair over with. He was beginning to feel the effect of the long hours, and the urge to get back to the Lazy A and assume his responsibilities was pushing him hard. There would be no trouble explaining it all to Tom Ashburn now. The rancher would listen, but if there were any doubts in his mind, Bart Crawford could clear them up. And that was the way Ben wanted it. No doubts, no shadows. Tom Ashburn, and Sally, must believe in him and trust him, or else there was no future for him on the Lazy A. And they would, he was certain. Only Oran Bishop with his pig-headed stubbornness, might continue to doubt. While it meant little to him, he wished the blond cowpuncher would see matters in their true light, and admit he was wrong. Oran was a man he’d like to call friend.
“Here they come.”
Gates’ whisper was like a keen-bladed knife slicing through the half darkness. Ben stiffened as tension gripped him. There was a slight rustling sound as the men beside him prepared themselves.
“When I say the word …” Crawford murmured. “Not before.”
Olivia Woodward came through the doorway, paused, glanced back into the cabin momentarily, and stepped out into the yard. She turned left, walked slowly toward the far side of the cabin. Frick appeared next. Then Barney Rosen, carrying the nearly empty whiskey bottle by the neck. Both halted in front of the step. Al Sharpe loomed in the doorway. He swung the saddlebags over his shoulder and came on into the open. For a moment the three outlaws made a tight little group against the black rectangle of the cabin door.
Sharpe said, “Let’s get moving,” and started to follow Olivia Woodward.
In the next fragment of time Bart Crawford rose to his feet. He said, “Now,” and instantly four guns opened up on the outlaws.
Sharpe, Frick, and Rosen slammed back against the wall, dead from the hail of bullets. Through the boiling smoke and deafening echoes, Olivia Woodward began to scream, a wild, piercing, unnerving sound that sliced to the bone. Ben Jordan stood in horrified silence. Bishop, his mouth gaping, turned to Crawford slowly.
“My God … that was pure murder!” he said in a strangled voice. “You never gave them a chance to …”
Crawford, calmly reloading his revolver, said: “Didn’t plan on it.” He glanced at Gates. “Shut that woman up.”
Gates brought his gun up, leveled it.
Crawford said: “Not that way. Rap her over the head. That ought to do it.”
Arlie Davis and Cleve Aaron moved out of the brush, followed Gates. Olivia Woodward’s screams faded before the men reached her. She pulled back against the side of the cabin, her eyes wide with terror as she stared down at the bullet-riddled figures of the slain outlaws.
Jordan, brushed aside the revolting sickness that had claimed him suddenly when hard suspicion had sprung to life. He took a half step toward Crawford. He watched the emotionless features of the man for several moments, and then he spoke.
“You’re no different from them. You’re killers, outlaws. You’re not lawmen.”
Crawford finished reloading his weapon and brought it up abruptly, covering both Jordan and Bishop.
“You’re smart, mister,” he said dryly. “Now drop your irons, right where you’re standing. Both of you. Then get over alongside the woman until I figure out what I ought to do.”