Oran Bishop’s question was a gasp. “You … you’re not lawmen?”
“Hell, no,” Crawford said. “No more’n them three layin’ there on the ground.”
“But you said … you told us …”
Crawford laughed. “You think of a better way to go chasing after a lot of stolen money? It’s real easy, long as you ain’t around where folks know you.” He motioned toward the shack with his gun. “Move.”
Jordan gave Bishop a bitter, half smile. The blond cowpuncher knew now how simple it was to get fooled. When a man told you he was a lawman and exhibited some simple proof, such as a badge, it never occurred to you to question him. With Bishop, he walked out of the brush, crossed the small yard, and lined up beside Olivia Woodward. Gates was hunched over Sharpe, pulling the saddlebags from beneath the dead outlaw’s body. Davis and Cleve Aaron watched closely. Gates laid the pouches across Barney Rosen’s back and freed the straps from their buckles.
“It’s here,” he announced, thrusting his fingers inside and stirring about in the coins and currency.
Crawford said: “Finally run it down. But we got to be thinking about drifting. That shooting’s going to bring half the town out here.”
Olivia Woodward, a forced smile on her face, moved toward Crawford. “How about me?” she asked. “Where do I come in? It was my husband who robbed that bank. I’m entitled to a share.”
“Like hell,” Crawford grunted. “It was him that botched the deal up for us … him and them three owlhoots there with him. We were all set to clean out that bank ourselves. They beat us to it by about thirty minutes and got away with a stinking twenty thousand dollars. There was three times that much to be had. Woodward and his bunch didn’t know that.”
Olivia smiled wider. “Still a lot of money. Either you ought to give me a share, or else …”
“Or else what?” Crawford demanded.
Olivia Woodward tilted her head coyly. “Or else take me along with you. I can help you enjoy it.”
Arlie Davis said, quick and sudden: “No, sir. We don’t want no woman hanging around.”
Crawford appraised the woman slowly. He grunted. “I expect you could keep a man mighty busy, sure enough. And spend his money real fast, too, was you given the chance.”
“Then you’ll take me?”
Crawford shook his head. “Arlie’s right. We got no room for a woman tagging along. And there ain’t much cash to split anyway.”
“What are we doin’ with these two jaspers?” Cleve Aaron asked, coming into the conversation. “Not smart to leave them breathin’ so’s they can talk.”
“We won’t,” Crawford said. “We’re goin’ to make it look like a shoot-out between them and the others. But we got to move fast.”
Olivia flung a quick glance at Jordan and Bishop. She edged nearer to Crawford. “You’re not treating me right,” she said protestingly—and threw herself directly into the outlaw leader’s arms.
Crawford cursed, tried to step back, stumbled into Gates. In that moment Ben Jordan and Bishop, gambling everything against certain death, lunged forward. Arlie Davis fired as Jordan swept Sharpe’s left-hand pistol from its holster. Ben felt the outlaw’s bullet burn along his neck. He triggered his weapon as he sprawled flat. Davis jolted as Jordan’s slug caught him in the chest, drove him backward. Another gun blasted. Ben heard someone yell—Aaron he thought it was, but he did not turn to look, instead simply rolled. From the tail of his eye he saw Olivia Woodward still clinging to Bart Crawford. The outlaw was staggering about, struggling desperately to dislodge her. Ben saw Gates then, whirling to shoot. He dropped the man with a hasty shot.
Beyond him Oran Bishop was pulling himself to his feet. Blood was streaming down one arm that hung limply at his side. But the blond cowpuncher was grinning, a tight-lipped, hard-cornered grin. Cleve Aaron lay motionlessly beneath him.
Jordan rolled to an upright position, leaped to where Olivia Woodward wrestled with Crawford. He seized the man’s hand, wrenched the pistol from his grasp. The woman released her deathlike grip and sank to the ground, exhausted and breathless.
Crawford stared down at her, his dark face furious, eyes burning. “A damned woman,” he muttered. “Tricked by a damned woman.”
Jordan rubbed at the stinging groove along his neck. “You can think about that while they’re hanging you for murder,” he said. He glanced at Bishop. “Hit bad?”
Oran shook his head. “Not much more than a scratch. You all right?”
“All I did get was a scratch. How about Aaron? He dead?”
“Knocked out. Couldn’t get my hands on a gun. Had to use my fist.”
“That’s two left for the law then,” Ben said, adding, “the real law this time.”
He reached down for Olivia Woodward’s hand, helped her rise. She was breathing more normally now, and womanlike she began to pin up her hair, shaken loose by Crawford’s frantic attempts to break away from her.
“No need for you to wait here,” he said. “Take my horse … your husband’s … and go back to your house before anybody gets here. The town won’t ever know you had any part of this.”
Ben glanced at Bishop, standing with a gun pressed into Crawford’s back. The blond cowpuncher nodded his approval.
Olivia Woodward gave him a grateful smile. “Thank you,” she murmured.
“We sure owe you that much,” Bishop said.
Off, somewhere along the lane, the beat of oncoming horses sounded.
“You’d better hurry,” Jordan said. “You’ll find that sorrel over there in the brush. Keep off the road. You won’t be noticed.”
She nodded, ran across the yard. At the fringe of the brush she paused, looked back. “He’s still your horse,” she said. “When you get ready to leave, he’ll be waiting for you … with a bill of sale.”
She was gone in the next moment, out of sight in the weeds and brush. Jordan turned and pulled off his belt. Jerking Crawford about, he strapped the outlaw’s wrists together. With Bishop helping, they did the same for Cleve Aaron, using a strip of rawhide they found on Barney Rosen’s body. They put both men inside the cabin and waited outside the doorway for the riders they could hear coming.
Bishop stuck out his hand. “Reckon I sure made a real prime jackass out of myself,” he said. “That Crawford sure fooled me.”
“We both weren’t very bright,” Ben agreed.
Bishop was quiet. Inside the shack Crawford was cursing in a low, furious tone. Aaron, conscious and sitting up, was looking around in a dazed, puzzled way.
Oran Bishop studied the toes of his boots. “I know I don’t have much right to say this, but I hope what you said about me staying on the ranch still goes.”
Jordan shrugged. “All right with me. Up to you to square yourself with Tom Ashburn, though.”
“Won’t be no chore. Crawford took him in, same as he did me. But I figure I’d better warn you. I still think I’m the best man for that ramrod job and I aim to keep on working for it. If you don’t favor that, you’d better fire me now.”
“I’m not afraid of holding it.”
“Good enough. Just so you know. And there’s one thing more … Sally.”
“What about Sally?”
“I figure to keep trying there, too.”
Jordan grinned. “You just do that, cowboy. She’ll pick the best man … just like her pa did.”
the end