Owen McCreedy was stretched out in one of the jail cells when he heard the front door open and Perry Moon’s voice. “Boss?”
McCreedy sat up slowly, dropping his feet to the floor. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes—when was the last time he’d slept for more than two hours at a time?—he said, “Yeah, back here. I’m comin’.”
Yawning, he stood, rubbed his bristly face, patted his sandy hair down, and walked heavily out the cell door, down the short hall, and into his office. Perry Moon’s saddlebags and rifle were lying just inside the door, but Moon himself was nowhere to be seen. McCreedy frowned curiously. Then Perry himself appeared in the door, carrying the packs and panniers he’d taken off his pack horse and in which he’d carried two weeks’ worth of provisions. The packs looked plenty light now, however.
When he saw McCreedy, the young deputy stopped suddenly, boyishly wide-eyed. “Did ye get him, Boss?”
McCreedy shook his head. “Not yet.”
“Oh, dang it all, anyway!” the tall twenty-two-year-old complained, his face twisted with dismay. McCreedy had always thought Perry’s name fit him, for his face was moon-shaped, though now it was covered with a thin beard, and the knobs of his cheeks and nose were peeling from sunburn. His clothes were filthy, and McCreedy could smell the lad from here.
As he came through the door and set the pannier next to his saddlebags, McCreedy said, “I bet you were running low on supplies.”
“Oh, I still had some coffee and flour left, and a little sugar. It wasn’t no problem. Boss. Pa always said a man could survive his whole life on just flour and coffee from town. The rest he could find out in the wild.”
“Yeah, and your old man nearly did just that, didn’t he?” McCreedy said, remembering Perry’s father, Jake Moon, one of the original settlers of Johnson City who’d been lured to the region by silver and gold. Eight years ago, he’d died in a rockslide in Silver Canyon.
“He sure did.”
“Well... I’m sorry I had to put you through that. Perry. Two weeks alone in those mountains is a long time, but I thought it was better than you having some so-called ‘accident’ here in town. Your ma never would’ve forgiven me for that.”
Perry was kneeling down, pulling articles out of the saddlebags. “Well, I ain’t afraid of Billy Brown, but I see why you wanted me to lay low for a while.” He stood with several boxes of forty-four cartridges and placed them in the bottom drawer of McCreedy’s desk. Closing the drawer, he turned to the sheriff with a brooding look on his face. “So what are we gonna do about Billy, Boss?”
A dark cast shading his features, McCreedy went to the stove and poured himself a cup of coffee. “Well, that’s why I had Fred fetch you, Perry. The girl didn’t show, so’s there hasn’t been a hearing or trial. But something happened earlier that makes me believe she and Prophet might still be alive. A rider stormed into town earlier—one of Billy’s riders. He had urgent news for Billy, and something tells me that news has something to do with Prophet and the girl. The man looked like someone had hornswoggled him good. He wasn’t happy at all.” Thoughtfully, McCreedy blew on his coffee and sipped.
The deputy was locking his rifle in the gun rack. “You think they got Proph on the run?”
“Either that or holed up somewhere. Maybe in a line shack or an old trapper’s cabin, and they’re havin’ a hard time rootin’ ’im out.” McCreedy shook his head. “I don’t know ... it’s hard to figure. If that’s the case, why didn’t Billy and his men ride out immediately?”
“Maybe he figured it’d look too suspicious—him ridin’ out with a pack like that, right after that hombre stormed in here so fast. Maybe he figured you was watchin’.”
Pursing his lips and nodding, the sheriff said, “That could be.” The only problem with young Moon’s scenario was that McCreedy didn’t think Billy Brown respected him enough to worry whether or not he was watching.
“I don’t know,” McCreedy said disgustedly, after a long silence. “Maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with Prophet and the girl. But I brought you back to hold down the fort. If Billy and his men leave town, I’m going to trail ‘em, see where they head. So why don’t you run over to the Excelsior and get yourself a big steak and plate of beans, then go on home for a bath and some shut-eye. Come back here first thing in the morning.”
“Sounds good to me, Boss,” Perry Moon said with a tired sigh, picking up his saddlebags and heading for the door.
“Oh, Perry,” McCreedy called. He tossed the lad a coin. “Here’s for that meal. Tell ‘em you want the best in the house.”
“Thanks, Boss,” the lad said, glancing at the coin and smiling.
“See you tomorrow.”
“First thing.”
As the deputy led his horses toward the feed barn, McCreedy stepped outside and cast his gaze up the lamp-lit street to the Nuremberg, where all the windows were lit, a half-dozen horses nosed the hitch-rail, and the sounds of the roulette wheel clattered in the cool mountain air.
He turned, pulled a chair outside, and sat under the portico, watching the Nuremberg for signs of anything suspicious—namely Billy Brown heading out with his riders. McCreedy didn’t think he’d leave at this time of night if he hadn’t left earlier, but he wasn’t taking any chances. When he did leave—if he left—McCreedy wanted to know about it, so he could dog him.
At one A.M., McCreedy decided nothing was going to happen. Needing at least a few hours’ rest if he was going to be at all effective tomorrow, he retired to the cell in which he’d been sleeping earlier, and lay down with a weary groan.
When would it end? When would he finally have Billy Brown behind bars? When could he finally retrieve his wife from the Holbrook farm, where he’d sequestered her after arresting Billy? When could he and Alice start living their lives again?
Fortunately, he was so tired that the questions didn’t haunt him long. Before he knew it, sunlight streamed through the barred window above his head, and he heard boots clomping on the wood floor, getting louder as they approached. “Boss?”
It was Perry Moon.
“Oh, shit!” McCreedy griped, swinging his feet to the floor. “How long did I sleep?”
“Well... it’s pret’ near nine o’clock.”
McCreedy was pulling his boots on. “You see any movement around the Nuremberg, Perry?”
“That’s why I came in to wake ye. Billy Brown and Clive Russo just had a couple horses brought up from the feed barn. Fred Miller came and told me.”
“Fred?”
“Yeah, when I delivered my horses last night, I told him to let us know if Billy called for his saddle horse.”
“Goddamn—that’s good thinkin’, son,” McCreedy said, putting a hand on his deputy’s shoulder. The young man had been McCreedy’s deputy for only three months—the last had been scared off by Billy Brown— but he was catching on quick. “Thanks.”
“Before I come to wake ye, they were still tied to the hitch-rack,” the proud deputy called to his boss, as McCreedy stomped down the hall and into his office.
He made a beeline for the window and looked out at an angle, up toward the hotel swathed in morning sunshine. Billy Brown and Clive Russo had just stepped through the Nuremberg’s double doors, pulling their gloves on and adjusting their hats—the squat, thick-set Billy and the six-foot, slender Russo with his ostentatious red mustache and goatee, which, it was said, a Chinese courtesan washed and combed every morning in his room across from Billy’s in the Nuremberg.
“Yeah, here they come,” McCreedy breathed.
He grabbed his gunbelt from the peg by the door and strapped it around his waist, then walked to the gun rack for a thirty-thirty. He grabbed a box of shells from a desk drawer. Having seen Perry’s horse at the hitch-rack, he said, “I’ll take your horse. I’ll see you in a couple hours ... I hope.”
“If ye don’t?” Perry called as McCreedy headed out.
McCreedy thought about this. “If I don’t, you just got a promotion.”
The sheriff stepped outside and cast his gaze to his left, where Brown and Russo were cantering their horses eastward, away from McCreedy. They turned right and disappeared behind a blacksmith shop, the chimney of which filled the bright air with sooty black smoke. McCreedy shoved his rifle into Perry’s saddle boot, mounted up, and gigged the horse past the Nuremberg, tracing Brown’s course around the blacksmith shop and down First Street, which curved around a mountain. Along the mountain’s base, falling-down shanties belched breakfast smoke, and a three-legged cur barked at McCreedy’s horse trotting past.
“Go lay down, Lucky,” the sheriff growled, checking the horse’s frightened sidestep.
First Street played out down a steep grade. At the bottom of the grade and about a half-mile from Main Street sat the rodeo grounds, in a wide, fiat bend in the river. Just before McCreedy came to the road forking off to the grounds, he dismounted his horse and tethered it to a cottonwood along a rocky butte. Stealing along the butte, he removed his hat, and, keeping the butte between him and the rodeo grounds, stole a look toward the river.
Near the rough wooden spectator bleachers, Billy Brown and Clive Russo were cantering their horses toward a loose pack of riders—over twenty by McCreedy’s estimation. All were armed with pistols, rifles, and knives, extra cartridge belts looped across their chests. They watched their approaching boss and his segundo— ready to ride, the kill-lust plain in their eyes.
McCreedy’s heart rattled a harried rhythm as he watched Brown and Russo bring their horses to a halt before the army. Billy’s head jerked as he issued orders. Then he gigged his horse through the crowd, Clive following, and headed across the rodeo grounds toward the tree-lined river reflecting the morning sunshine. The grim warriors reined their horses in 360-degree circles, and galloped up to their leader as Brown and Russo reached the river.
McCreedy whistled softly as he watched the group splash through the river and mount the butte on the other side. What he could do against twenty-five men, he had no idea, but it was too late to swear in more deputies. If he did nothing else, he could see where they were headed and what they were up to. If they had Prophet cornered, he owed the man a hand, however feeble.
He waited until they’d all disappeared down the other side of the butte and were gone, only their chalky dust lingering in the cottonwoods. Then he turned, untied his horse from the cottonwood, and mounted up, galloping toward the stream.
Brown and his men were deep in the mountains when Billy called a hall to rest the horses, as they were showing signs of altitude fatigue.
“Billy, you think we should leave a couple men behind to watch our back trail?” Clive Russo asked as his boss stood holding his horse’s reins while puffing a cigarette down to his fingers.
“You thinking McCreedy might’ve followed us?” Brown said with a caustic snort.
Russo shrugged. He’d removed his hat, and his thin red hair hung wetly to his shoulders. “Never know. Why take a chance?”
“Well, I ain’t afraid of Owen McCreedy, but if it’ll make you feel better, Clive ...”
Russo turned to where the men milled along the trail ambling through the pine forest. Gentle, shaded slopes lifted on both sides. Birds and squirrels chittered. The ground was dappled with sunlight and gave off the smell of moist earth and pine needles.
“Beach, Gruber,” Clive said. “Hang back in case we’re bein’ dogged.”
“And if we are ... ?” Gruber asked.
Clive turned to Billy, a question in his eyes.
“Shoot ‘em,” Billy said, as though imparting obvious information to a simpleton. Then he flicked away his cigarette stub. Bouncing on his right foot, he hiked his left boot into his stirrup and grunted into the leather. “The rest of you, let’s ride!”
While the others rode away, disappearing around a bend in the wooded trail, Beach and Gruber glanced at each other meaningfully, then turned and led their horses up the spongy slope. They tied their horses in a dense stand of mixed conifers, removed their Winchesters from their saddle boots, then crept back down the grade, until they could see the sun-dappled trail thirty yards away.
They sat smoking, the breeze blowing the smoke out behind them. After about fifteen minutes, they heard a sharp clack, like a horse kicking a rock, then a creaking saddle. One at a time, they quietly levered shells into the breeches of their Winchesters.
They sat there, rifles on their knees, until the rider appeared on their left, coming along the trail below them. He was a medium tall man in a cowhide vest and black felt hat with a dented crown. Sun dappled the crown, making it glow. A tin star winked on his vest.
He’d ridden about fifteen more feet when he suddenly reined his sorrel quarter horse to a halt and jerked a look to his right, toward Beach and Gruber. Sighting down the barrel resting on his knee, Gruber squeezed the trigger, the rifle cracking and bouncing with the report. The man with the star flew off the left side of his horse and rolled down the slope. The horse gave a whinny and bounded off its hind legs, hightailing up the trail.
Gruber looked at Beach with a contained grin. Then both men stood and walked down the slope, Beach holding his rifle cautiously out before him, Gruber holding his casually down at his side, an arrogant set to his mouth.
They found the man about twenty feet from the trail, lying face down between two pines, blood smudged in the leaves and needles he’d churned up as he’d rolled. He lay at an odd angle, his left arm pinned beneath him, hatless head turned sideways, blood dribbling from a jagged cut on his chin, another on his brow.
“That McCreedy?” Beach asked.
“I don’t know,” Gruber said, rolling the man onto his back.
Gruber heard the two quick reports about the same time he saw the man lift his left hand and extend the gun, which sent blades of smoke and fire first into Gruber, then into Beach. Gruber twisted around and hit the ground chest down, his face buried in leaves and the sharp tang of pine resin. He’d just realized what had happened, when everything went black.
Owen McCreedy lay on his hip, gun extended, staring at the two men, making sure they were dead, and listening, wondering if the gunfire had been heard by the rest
of Brown’s army, wondering if Brown had sent out more pickets.
When he was sure both men were dead, and relatively sure no others were in the immediate vicinity, he looked at his bloody right arm, feeling as though a hot poker had plunged all the way to the bone. He holstered his pistol, reached around with his left hand, and tore his right sleeve down to his elbow, revealing the bloody hole.
Cursing the pain, he then removed his neckerchief, and wrapped and tied it around the wound, hoping the wrap would stop the bleeding. He knew he should go back to town and get the arm tended by a doctor, but he couldn’t turn back now. Brown and his men were headed after Prophet and the girl. McCreedy knew it now without a doubt. Who else would they be after out here, and why else would Brown have sent out pickets to ambush trackers?
While he’d figured out who they were after, McCreedy couldn’t figure out where they were going. The trail they were following led to Miner’s Gulch. How would they have gotten Prophet trapped in there? But if they had, Prophet was going to need all the help he could get.
With that urgent thought propelling him forward, McCreedy gained his feet. Holding his throbbing arm, he climbed the hill to the trail and started walking in the direction of his horse, finding the animal twenty minutes later, grazing the sun-dappled meadow near the trail. The horse belonged to Perry Moon, but the animal knew McCreedy, and didn’t run as the sheriff approached, talking to the animal as gently as he could considering the pain he was in, as well as the hurry.
Mounting up with a painful sigh, wagging his head against the hot throbs piercing his core, he gigged the horse into a trot, keeping his eyes peeled on both sides of the trail so he wouldn’t get shot out of his saddle again. As he rode, he reached back and shucked his Winchester with his good arm, knowing he’d need it soon.