13
Bart Rowland got up one morning, packed his belongings, went to the livery for his horse, and rode out of town. Slocum and Speer both saw him go. He rode in the wrong direction to be headed for either Mix’s or Ritchie’s spread.
“He’s leaving town,” said Speer.
“I don’t believe it,” Slocum said. “I mean to follow him.”
“If you get yourself into any shooting scrape,” said Speer, “just make sure it’s out away from my jurisdiction.”
Slocum grinned at Speer. “I wouldn’t do anything to piss you off, Sheriff,” he said. He followed in Rowland’s steps, going to the livery for his horse. He was in no hurry, for he did not want Rowland to know that he was being followed. In a few minutes, he was riding out of town. Speer watched him go too. He wondered what would happen when the two gunfighters met up with one another. He hoped that Slocum would survive it. When Slocum was out of sight, Speer walked on over to Brenda’s Place. He found himself a table and sat down. Brenda was right over with a cup of coffee.
“Thanks,” Speer said.
“Anything else for you?” Brenda asked.
“Just coffee,” Speer said.
Brenda looked around the room. Her few customers all seemed contented for the moment, so she sat down at the table with the sheriff. “Something wrong?” she asked.
“Just this whole business,” Speer said. “Those two men getting killed like that. Slocum is damn sure that Rowland is behind it, but Rowland rode out of town this morning—all packed up like he’s leaving for good. He was headed north. Slocum followed him. Could be a showdown, I guess. Slocum asked me how come I didn’t just let him call Rowland out. Maybe I should have. Hell, I just don’t know.”
“I think Slocum can handle himself all right,” Brenda said.
“Yeah? But we ain’t seen Rowland in action. He’s got a hell of a reputation.”
“Well,” she said, “all we can do is wait and see what happens.”
“I keep thinking there ought to be something else I could be doing. There’s trouble around. Bad trouble, and I’m the sheriff. I hate just sitting and waiting for something else to happen.”
Dave Mix rode up to Ritchie’s hotel just as Ritchie walked out the front door. Mix dismounted and slapped the reins around the rail. Ritchie could tell by the look on his face that Mix had not come in for a friendly visit. He saw the six-gun strapped around Mix’s waist. He stopped on the sidewalk and waited for Mix to make the first move.
“Ritchie,” Mix said, “let’s have it out right now.”
“What are you talking about, Dave?”
“A showdown. Just you and me. Then it will be over once and for all, one way or the other. Come on. You wearing a gun?”
Ritchie opened his coat to show that he was not.
“Well, go back in and get one,” Mix said. “I’ll wait for you right here. Go on.”
Ritchie turned and went back inside the hotel. It was only a short wait for Mix. Ritchie came back out. He was not wearing his coat, and he had a six-gun belted on.
“Margaret tried to tell me it was you behind all this trouble,” Ritchie said. “I didn’t believe her.”
“You’re talking bullshit,” said Mix. “It all started when you had my cattle rustled and my wagons wrecked. My store burned down.”
“That was those three men that Slocum killed.”
“They done some of the rustling all right, but they didn’t do all that other stuff. They didn’t shoot me from ambush either.”
“How do you know that?”
“Slocum found a boot print. A woman’s,” Mix said.
“Hell,” said Ritchie, “that could’ve been left there at any time by anyone.”
“That’s enough jawing. Go for your gun.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t send your hired gun Slocum to do the job.”
“Slocum don’t work that way,” said Mix. “Besides that, I fired him. Where’s your gunfighter?”
“I don’t have any gunfighter,” Ritchie said.
“Come on now. That Rowland you brought in. Where’s he at?”
“He rode out of town this morning. And I never brought him in. I don’t even know him.”
“Are you going to go for your gun?”
Speer came walking up just then. “What the hell’s going on here?” he demanded.
“Stay out of this, Thad,” said Mix. “This is between me and Ritchie. It always has been. I mean to see it finished right here and now.”
Speer walked straight toward Mix.
“Keep out of this,” said Mix.
Speer reached up for the brim of his hat seeming exasperated. Suddenly he whipped the hat off his head and slapped Mix hard across the face, at the same time reaching down and pulling out Mix’s shooter. He stepped back quick and leveled the gun at Mix.
“Damn you,” said Mix.
Speer turned around and walked up to Ritchie, holding out his left hand. “I’ll take yours too,” he said. Ritchie pulled out the gun with two fingers and held it out for Speer. The sheriff took it, and with a gun in each hand he stepped back so he could face both men. “Any more trouble out of you two, and I’ll lock both of you up. You hear me?” No one answered. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I can get another gun,” Mix said.
“If you do, you’re going to jail,” said Speer. “I ain’t fooling with you. You come back in town packing any kind of gun, I’ll throw your ass in jail. Now get on out of here.”
Mix grudgingly got back on his horse and rode out of town fast. Speer turned on Ritchie.
“The same thing goes for you, James. I see you packing iron, you’re going to jail.”
He turned and walked toward his office. Ritchie went back into the hotel.
Slocum followed Rowland all day. When Rowland stopped and camped for the night, Slocum did the same. He was up early the next morning. Rowland had already broken camp and started riding. Slocum followed. Again, Rowland rode all day with Slocum on his trail. Slocum was beginning to wonder if Speer had been right and Rowland was leaving the area for good. Then he saw that they were coming to a town. Slocum let Rowland ride on in, and he found a place where he could hide and watch. It was late in the day, and he made himself another camp. He was up on a rise, and he had a good view of the small town. He did not want to confront Rowland yet. He wanted to find out what he was up to. He would hide and watch.
It was far into the night. Slocum had decided that nothing was going to happen until morning. He had rolled out his blanket and was sleeping soundly when he felt someone kick him in the side. He woke up and started to reach for his gun, but he was stopped by the sound of a rifle chambering a shell. He squinted in the darkness, and he recognized the form of Bart Rowland standing over him. He glanced around slowly. There were four other men. So that’s what Rowland had been up to—recruiting more men. Getting reinforcements.
“Stand up slow,” said Rowland.
Slocum tossed the blanket aside and stood. A man behind him took his Colt. Another picked up his Winchester.
“I never heard of you needing to bring extra men along to do your killing,” Slocum said.
“I ain’t going to kill you, Slocum. No one’s paid me to kill you.”
“What then?”
“You’ll find out soon enough. Beebe, get his boots. Rat’s Ass, fetch his horse over here and saddle it up.”
The man called Rat’s Ass went for the horse and saddle. Rowland never took his eyes off Slocum.
“You should’ve let me alone, Slocum,” he said. “A little professional courtesy goes a long ways.”
“You’re messing with a friend of mine,” Slocum said.
“When it comes to business, there ain’t no such thing as friends. Cowley, you and Naylor tie him to that tree over yonder. Tie him good and tight.”
The two men shoved Slocum toward the tree and pulled his arms back and around it. Then they tied his hands. They tied his feet and legs by wrapping rope around him and the tree.
“Put one around his neck too,” Rowland said. “Not too tight. I don’t want him killed, just immobilized.”
When Cowley and Naylor had finished, Slocum could hardly move. If he tipped his head too much, he would choke. They had done a good job of it. Rowland relaxed his guard. He turned to the one he had called Rat’s Ass. “Pack all of his stuff on the horse,” he said. “Guns and boots too.” When they were ready to go, Rowland suddenly swung his rifle butt, smacking Slocum a good one to the side of the head. Slocum felt the blood trickling down the side of his face and on down his neck. Then Rowland whacked him a couple of times in the ribs. Slocum’s head sagged, and the rope choked him. He had to lift his head again. “Let’s go, boys,” Rowland said. “Bring his horse along.”
They all mounted up, Rat’s Ass leading Slocum’s horse, and they started to ride off. Rowland was in the rear. He hesitated and looked down at Slocum. “You should have stayed out of it, Slocum,” he said. “You know, you could die up here, all trussed up like that. No food. No water. No weapons. It gets cold at night too.”
He kicked his horse in the sides and rode on after his four recruits. Slocum sucked in air. His ribs hurt. Rowland might have cracked a couple of them. His head hurt like hell. He was in a very uncomfortable position. He couldn’t sleep. His head would drop, and he would be choked. He figured that Rowland had been right. He could die right there. It wasn’t a way he had ever figured he would go. A gunfight maybe, a knife in the ribs in a saloon brawl, but not this. He had been a fool to let Rowland and those scummy bastards slip up on him like that. He wondered just how long Rowland had been aware of him. As soon as he rode out of Hangdog maybe. Maybe he had been planning this all along. Slocum had sure been suckered all right, and it might well be for the last time.
Stumpy Morgan was out of a job. He was riding toward Hangdog, and if he found nothing there, he had heard that there might be jobs to be had around a little place on a ways called Slapdash. He was a good cowpuncher, and he shouldn’t have any problems if he could just come across some spread where they were a little short-handed. He was riding along whistling an old tune when he saw the stray horse. He rode up to it casually. It was saddled and packed. There was a rifle in the boot, and a six-gun in a holster was hanging across the saddle horn. Then he noticed that a pair of boots had been stuffed halfway into the saddlebags. It was sure peculiar. Carefully, he reached for the reins. He did not want to spook the creature. He got hold of the reins all right, and he talked to the horse in soothing tones. At the same time, he looked around for any sign of the rider.
The country around was pretty flat, mostly prairie. Stumpy could see for a good ways in most directions, and he did not see anyone. Of course, if the rider was hurt, he might be lying flat in tall grass. But there were the boots. That didn’t make any sense. There was a slight rise in the landscape a little ways back. Stumpy had passed it a short while ago. It was one spot where he couldn’t see too well. He decided to ride back to it and look up on top. Even if he didn’t find anyone up there, he should be able to look over the prairie all around from a better vantage point. Leading the horse, he headed back. Even though he had a destination in mind, he kept watching all around as he rode. A man down like that could be anywhere.
He didn’t see anything before he reached the rise. He stopped for a moment studying it. Picking the most likely-looking route, he headed up. He had just reached the top of the rise when he saw the man tied to the tree. He hurried over and quickly dismounted. The man looked dead, his head was hanging forward, and there was a rope tied tight around his neck. Stumpy lifted the head, and the man coughed. His eyes opened slowly, and he looked at Stumpy. “Just hang on a bit more, pard,” Stumpy said. “I’ll get you loose from there.” He pulled a bowie knife out of a sheath at his belt, and he sawed at the rope around Slocum’s neck. When he had severed it, Slocum let his head drop again, this time without choking. Stumpy sliced the ropes that bound Slocum’s arms around the tree, and finally he knelt to cut the ropes that bound Slocum’s bootless feet. Freed from the tree, Slocum nearly collapsed. Stumpy caught him and helped him to sit down.
“You ain’t a rustler, are you?” Stumpy asked. “That’s a mighty peculiar way to hang a man.”
Slocum shook his head. He couldn’t make any words come out of his mouth. Stumpy ran over to his horse and got the canteen, bringing it back to Slocum and offering a drink. Slocum drank greedily. Stumpy took it back, saying, “I think that’s about enough. Take it easy. Say. I don’t know how long you been there, but could you use some coffee and something to eat?”
Slocum nodded, and Stumpy got busy building a fire. Soon, he had some grub cooking and coffee boiling. Checking it all, he walked over to Slocum’s horse and fetched the boots and the Colt back to Slocum. Holding them out toward Slocum, he said, “I’d bet these are yours.” Slocum nodded again and reached out for the items. He put them on the ground beside himself. Soon, Stumpy handed Slocum a plate, and Slocum ate like he hadn’t eaten in a week. Stumpy gave him a cup of steaming coffee, and Slocum drank it down like it was cold. Stumpy poured him some more, and he shoveled more food on the plate. When Slocum at last finished eating, he sat with a cup of coffee. He had some strength back. He was rested, and his throat was feeling some better.
“I want to thank you,” he said.
“Name’s Stumpy. Stumpy Morgan.”
“Thanks, Stumpy. I’m Slocum.”
“Say, if you don’t think it’s none of my business, just say so, but I got to ask. How the hell did you wind up like that anyhow?”
Slocum told the whole story to Stumpy, beginning with the letter he had received from Mix sometime back.
“Damn,” Stumpy said. “So who do you think hired this Rowland?”
“I got no idea,” Slocum said.
“You going back for him?”
“What do you think?”
“You don’t seem like no quitter to me.”
“I’m going back,” Slocum said, “but I don’t mean to face him with this right off. He’d just deny it, and if I killed him, the sheriff would be after me. I’m going back and I’m going to do what I was doing all along. I mean to watch him and catch him at something. Figure out who he’s working for. Then I’ll get him. One way or another.”
“You said your friend was pissed off at you. Told you to get out of town.”
“I don’t need his pay,” Slocum said. “This is all on my own now.”
“Yeah,” Stumpy said. “I can see why. But you got five men to deal with now, and you still don’t know just who to blame for all this trouble. It sounds to me like you’ve set yourself up for one hell of a job. Them ain’t good odds.”
“The sheriff’s a good man,” Slocum said. “He just needs proof before he can do anything. But if I get the proof and it comes to a showdown, he’ll be with me.”
“That’s a big if.”
“I’ll get it, though,” Slocum said. “Either that or I’ll get myself killed.”
“It means that much to you? Even after you got fired?”
“It does now.”
“Slocum?”
“Yeah?”
“You want a pard in this deal?”