Frank Guthrie stopped at a stream outside Caplock to clean himself up. He scraped off his beard stubble and changed into clean clothes he found in Yancey’s saddlebags. It wasn’t that he was taken with the idea of cleanliness; it was because the wanted posters out on him showed him in a disheveled condition, beard-shagged, grubby, with ragged shirt and hair hanging across his forehead. When he was cleaned-up, with hair slicked back with water and the beard gone, he looked entirely different. He wasn’t sure if there was any law in Caplock, but he wasn’t taking any chances.
He checked his guns before mounting up again and heading along the trail into town. Strangely enough, he had never been here before, although it was on the edge of the country that he liked to call his own bailiwick. The main reason he hadn’t bothered with Caplock was because it had nothing to offer him. There was only a small tight-knit community, a few business houses and a single saloon. He had heard that there was a Wells Fargo agency and a post office sharing space in the rear of a general store, and that there was a banking agency for the Texas First National. But the pickings had always been too lean to attract the Guthrie bunch. They preferred richer fields.
Riding down the dusty main drag of Caplock, Guthrie knew there would be little to interest him here. The buildings looked kind of mean and weathered, sun-and-wind-scoured, the timbers that silver-bleached color common to desert towns. There wasn’t an adobe structure anywhere and he figured the folk here were not very smart for adobe would have made life much more pleasant in this heat. He did not take into consideration that water was a precious commodity out here, and there were no nearby mud pans where adobe could be made, anyway.
He was singularly unimpressed with Caplock and decided that the sooner he tracked down Cato and nailed him, the quicker he could shake the dust of this burg and then set about organizing another gang. Of course, it wouldn’t be the same without Tag but at least his twin would be avenged and he might be able to rest easier. He just hoped he hadn’t missed Cato.
But, after a few words with the taciturn barman in the town’s lone saloon, Frank Guthrie cursed into his beer when the man said:
“Dunno his name for sure, but a small hombre like you described was here two, three days back. Gone now, though.”
“You wouldn’t know where?” Guthrie asked tightly.
The barkeep shook his head. “Just rode on out. Spent most of his time either up at the infirmary or out at the nurse’s house.”
Guthrie paused with his glass almost touching his lips. He looked sharply at the barman. “He hurt?”
“Not that I noticed. It was the nurse he was interested in. Gal named Marnie Hendry. Helps out Doc Marshall and does one hell of a fine job.”
“Marnie Hendry,” Guthrie repeated slowly, his voice barely audible. He nodded slowly to himself, recalling Cato’s conversation with Bannerman. The girl had been mentioned. It sounded as if Cato was romantically interested in her. “Dunno what he wanted with the gal, huh?”
The barman looked at him steadily and went on polishing glasses. “Thought it was this feller Cato you was interested in?”
Guthrie gave him a bleak look that had the man backing off slightly, suddenly aware that he was facing a very dangerous man indeed.
“Sure,” Guthrie told him softly, “I’m interested in Cato. And in everythin’ he did in town, savvy?”
The barkeep cleared his throat. “Mind if I ask why?”
“Yeah, I do.” Guthrie glared and dropped a hand to his holstered six-gun. “Now, I asked you a question, feller.”
“Er—yeah. Well, I ain’t too sure about what Cato wanted ...”
The man jumped as Guthrie suddenly swept his left arm around and sent a row of bottles and freshly polished glasses flying to the floor. The loud shattering of glass was followed by silence in the gloomy bar as drinkers snapped up their heads to see what was going on. The barkeep backed off until his shoulders touched the rows of bottles on his shelves. He didn’t take his worried eyes off Guthrie who was glaring at him across the counter top.
“Now, this is the last time I’m askin’ you, mister!” Guthrie gritted. He pointed an index finger, using it to emphasize his words as he asked, “What was Cato doin’ here with the nurse?” The barman ran a tongue over his lips and started to answer but his gaze went past Guthrie’s shoulder and the outlaw stiffened as a voice spoke from behind him.
“We figure that ain’t any of your business, mister.”
There was no bar mirror so Guthrie had to turn to see who had spoken. He did so, slowly, hand near gun butt, tensed, ready for trouble. He found himself confronted by a half-dozen men, the same ones who had been drinking quietly a few minutes earlier. They were lined-up, boots planted firmly, fists clenched, trying to look dangerous. He almost laughed in their faces. They didn’t look very tough to him. But he didn’t relax any, just the same.
“That’s what you figure, huh?” he asked quietly.
The spokesman was a tall redhead in his forties, big-shouldered and looking as if he’d had a few fights in his day. This man nodded slowly. “Marnie Hendry’s a mighty popular gal in this town, stranger. We all owe her plenty, comin’ out here to help Doc Marshall. She’s bright and pleasant, has a good word for everyone. Now we kinda get the idea that you ain’t any too keen on this Cato feller, but he’s a friend of Marnie’s, more than a friend, seems like, and this town backs its friends. We won’t stand by and see anythin’ happen to Marnie Hendry or anyone else she happens to be interested in. You savvy?”
Guthrie smiled crookedly. “You know, Red, you just told me all I want to know anyway. Cato’s interested in the gal, and I happen to be interested in Cato. Makes it all kind of neat and tidy, don’t it?”
The redhead frowned. “Don’t you try anythin’ with Marnie, mister! We won’t stand by and see ...”
Guthrie’s right hand swept up and the Colt blazed twice before the redhead could say another word. The man reeled backwards, arms flailing, as the lead slammed into his chest. The others scattered as he went down and Guthrie fired again, hitting another man in the leg. Then he vaulted the bar one-handed and rammed the hot, smoking gun barrel against the head of the terrified barkeep. He looked at the room where the redhead lay dead, another man clawed at a bleeding leg and the others crouched behind overturned tables. He spoke quietly to the barman.
“Where’s this gal’s cabin?”
The barman made several attempts before he was able to speak and then his voice was hoarse and guttural, quivering with his fear. “North edge. Cabin with the busted gate in the white picket fence.”
Guthrie gun whipped him to his knees, then kicked him in the side. He came out from behind the bar and stood briefly, gun still in hand, raking his deadly gaze around the room.
“I’m Frank Guthrie, should anyone ask,” he said, then went on down the room to the batwings, half-turned to keep an eye on the men. He spun as a shadow darkened the doorway and a gray-haired man in flowered vest and striped trousers cannoned into him.
“I’m Doc Marshall,” the man panted “Am I needed here?”
Guthrie grabbed him by the arm and shoved him out onto the boardwalk, gun in his face. “Not here you ain’t, Doc. You come with me.”
Marshall started to protest, especially when he caught a glimpse of the dead man on the floor and someone yelled from inside, “Watch him, Doc! It’s Frank Guthrie and he’s after Marnie!”
Guthrie put a shot into the room and there were sounds of men scattering. Then he half-shoved, half-dragged the medic along the boardwalk, keeping his gun in his hand, seeing folk peering out from behind curtains as he stalked along towards the north edge of town.
The doctor started to protest again, demanding to know what was going on. Guthrie ignored him and dragged him on until he came to the cabin with the sagging gate in the white picket fence. He saw a girl’s pale face at the window and then, when he was halfway up the path, Marshall began to yell.
“Run, Marnie, run! He’s after you!”
Frank Guthrie swore as he flung the medic to the ground, kicking him in the side of the head. He leapt up onto the porch, lifted a boot and smashed the door lock with one savage kick. The wood splintered, the door crashed open and he stumbled inside. Marnie, taken by surprise, was halfway out of the parlor into the entrance hall. She stopped dead as Guthrie menaced her with the gun. He reached out and grabbed her arm, hauling her in against him and shoving her to the door. The doctor was staggering up onto the porch, bleeding from a gash where Guthrie’s boot-toe had caught him.
“Get in here, sawbones!” Guthrie growled and, as the medic stumbled through the doorway, he shoved him roughly, sending him sprawling to hands and knees in the hall. He kicked the door closed and propped a chair behind it. Then he pushed the girl towards the parlor doorway. She paused to help Marshall to his feet and Guthrie motioned impatiently for them both to get into the other room.
In the parlor, Marnie helped the dazed Marshall into a chair and then turned to face Guthrie. She was afraid, but was doing a pretty good job of covering it up. She tilted her chin as she looked at Guthrie, then flushed as his insolent, leering gaze ran over her figure from head to toe.
“What do you want?” the girl asked, her voice shaking a little.
Guthrie grinned as he leaned against the wall, spilling the empty shells from his gun and replacing them with fresh loads from his cartridge belt.
“Well, I came here lookin’ for Cato,” he answered readily enough.
“He’s gone. Days ago,” Marnie told him and there was something like relief in her voice.
“Yeah, so they told me.” He spun the fully-loaded cylinder on his gun and dropped the Colt back into his holster. His eyes were cold, narrowed as he looked hard at the girl, ignoring the doctor. “But you’re here.”
Marnie frowned and stared at him for a long minute. Then fear began to show on her face and Dr. Marshall straightened in his chair.
“Wh-what d’you mean?” the girl asked.
“Well, I’ve got a score to settle with Cato and I was lookin’ forward to doin’ it right here in Caplock. He killed my twin brother; shot him down in cold blood.” Guthrie paused to take a deep breath. “When the barkeep told me he’d already quit town. I wasn’t real worried. I figured as long as you were still around, you’d be able to tell me where he’d gone.”
“I don’t know where he’s gone,” Marnie said swiftly. “He rode out without telling me. We—we had an argument.”
Guthrie laughed. “That right? Well, I kind of got the idea it was just the opposite to that. I know he was comin’ here to ask you to marry him. Heard him tell Bannerman so. But it don’t matter, anyway.”
“She can’t tell you anything,” Marshall said suddenly. “Why don’t you just ride on and leave her alone?”
Guthrie looked coldly at the doctor. “You shut up,” he said without heat. Then he turned his gaze onto the girl and he smiled again, a dangerous, crooked smile that left his eyes very bleak. “I don’t care where Cato’s gone now. Not after seein’ you.”
Marnie stiffened, her face pale.
“No, sir,” he went on. “And I don’t give a goddamn whether you told Cato you’d marry him or not. Thing is, Cato’s real interested in you, and he wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”
Marnie took a step back and the doctor stood shakily and slipped an arm protectively about her shoulders. That made Guthrie laugh out loud.
“You sure are a popular gal, all right. Anyway, like I was sayin’, Cato wouldn’t want anythin’ to happen to you. And, if anythin’ did, he’d come a’runnin’.” His face sobered abruptly and suddenly his voice was edged with steel. “So, you see, I don’t have to go huntin’ him at all. I’ve got you, and I can bring him to me.” He took a step forward. “With a little help from you, of course.”
Marnie and the medic backed up against the wall and Guthrie’s left hand closed about her forearm. Marnie turned to cling to Dr. Marshall, but the outlaw wrenched her free, brutally, bringing a cry to her lips. His right hand palmed up his Colt and he notched back the hammer to full cock, ramming the barrel against Marshall’s chest.
“Back off, Doc, and maybe you’ll get to live a little longer. But you, sweetie, you come on over here with me! We’re gonna get to know each other real well before I shake the dust of this dump. Real well!”
Shaking violently, Marnie tried to pull back but Frank Guthrie was too strong for her. He yanked her in against him and tightened his arm about her waist, crushing her so hard that she had difficulty in breathing. Then he brought the Colt barrel around very slowly, hooked the blade foresight under the buttons of her bodice and ripped up suddenly.
As the buttons popped and the cloth tore, Marnie felt her legs turn to water and the room spun dizzily as she sagged in his arms.
~*~
It was sundown again and Yancey was no more than halfway up the slope. He couldn’t credit that it had taken him all day to climb such a short distance. But his wound was still bleeding and he was weak from loss of blood. One leg was injured, too, at the knee, and kept buckling under him. This meant he had to crawl on all fours. The heat had been nearly unbearable near midday and he had been forced to rest in the shade of a brush-hung boulder. He had slept without meaning to and it was late afternoon when he awakened.
Since then, he had climbed maybe twelve feet and there were still forty to go to the rim. With the sun going down fast, he wondered if he would make it.
For the wolf was back.
He had seen its flitting shadow earlier but hadn’t been certain then. Now, he could see the baleful yellow eyes and hear a throaty growling. It was much braver this time and he knew it likely hadn’t found food. Now it was hungry enough to face any kind of danger, to take risks, as long as its hunger was satisfied.
Yancey propped himself into a corner of the rocks and gathered a few fist-sized stones, placing them within easy reach on the ground. He clung to his club, knowing he wouldn’t be able to put much strength behind any blows if the wolf lunged at him. But it and the rocks were his only weapons, apart from the short-bladed knife welded to his belt buckle.
It would have to be a very close encounter for him to be able to use the knife effectively, he thought. But it was a weapon that might make the difference between living and dying so he pressed the release stud and slid out the brass buckle with the razor-sharp four-inch blade attached.
His left hand was red and swollen from the wolf’s earlier bite and he hoped the animal wasn’t rabid. But, truth to tell, he was feeling so weak and exhausted, that he really didn’t care. He simply couldn’t handle any more problems.
Almost without warning, the wolf attacked.
He didn’t see it move from its original shelter in the deep shadow of a boulder. The first he knew was when something gray came hurtling through the air at him, from one side, making straight for his throat. The eyes were almost glowing, the ripping fangs were bared and the snarling made his hair stand on end. He had the presence of mind to bring up the club and that probably saved him. For, though he wasn’t able to swing it in a stunning blow, the wolf landed on the end of it, the wood ramming into its lean belly and likely injuring internal organs, although it didn’t break the skin. The snarling changed to a strangled howl of pain and the animal spilled to the side.
The pain didn’t slow it down any. It scrabbled frantically for a foothold, found one, and came leaping back over the rocks at Yancey, snapping and slavering. He struck downwards with the club and it broke over the wolf’s skull, stunning it, sending it skidding nose-first into the ground. It rolled away, yelping, blood coming from its nostrils, then it came to its feet and leapt back in. Yancey couldn’t get the club up in time now and twisted it horizontally, shoving it in front of his face as the wolf snapped. The fetid breath hit him like a fist in the face and the savage teeth clamped into the wood. While the wolf shook the club free angrily, Yancey lifted one of his rocks and hurled it into its side. It skidded away a couple of feet and, free of the stick now, spun around and came in fast. Yancey kicked out with his legs and yelled as the teeth ripped into his flesh. Frantic with pain, he smashed down with a rock and felt it jar against the animal’s head. The wolf turned to snap at his hand and he lunged with the rock again, leaning forward to get his body weight behind it. He heard the animal’s teeth snap off and then there was whirling, snarling, yelping fury leaping all over him, snapping, biting, scratching with its claws as it fought for purchase and Yancey rolled in an effort to dislodge the animal.
He rolled onto his back and the wolf’s saliva and blood dripped into his face as he held its snarling jaws only inches away from his throat. His groping hand found his buckle knife and as the wolf opened its mouth for a final, ripping lunge, he struck upwards into the soft belly. He felt the blade go in and he ripped and twisted and stabbed again and again, a wild, savage thing in desperation, as primitive as the animal he fought. He went on slashing, covering himself with blood and entrails and not realizing for many minutes that the animal was long dead.
He gagged and rolled swiftly onto his side, remaining there for a long time. Then he flopped onto his back and lay there, still panting and gasping, staring up at the stars, spent.
And that was where Cato found him in mid-afternoon of the next day.
With all the drying blood around and the torn-up body of the wolf, Cato didn’t know whether Yancey was alive or not. He kicked the carcass of the animal aside and felt for the pulse in Yancey’s neck. It was there, but weaker than he had expected. He could see by his pard’s sallow skin that he had lost a lot of blood and must be very weak.
So, the first thing to do was to see where he was wounded and stop the blood flow. He found the bullet wound in his side, washed it clean with water and bound it up with his spare shirt. Both Yancey’s hands had been bitten but the left one was puffed up and there were red streaks starting to climb his forearm. Cato figured it was poisoned and washed it in hot water. The pain brought a groan to Yancey’s lips and his eyes opened. Although Cato spoke to him right away, it was some time before the big Enforcer’s gaze came into focus and settled on Cato’s face.
“Guthrie got away,” Yancey rasped, his words barely audible. “I—I …”
“Hush up, pard,” Cato said. “I seen the dead men up top and down in that draw. You put up a good fight.”
Yancey lifted his right arm and weakly pulled at Cato’s shirtsleeve with his fingers. “Guthrie got one—of their—guns. I—fell—down here. He left me—for—dead.”
“It’s okay, pard, don’t worry about it. We’ll catch up with him again.”
Yancey rolled his head slowly from side to side. “You— don’t savvy me, Johnny.” He paused for breath, chest heaving. “He—he done nothing but—talk about how—how he aimed to get—get you.”
“Yeah, sure, he promised to nail my hide to the wall for gunnin’-down Tag before I left you. But he’ll be long gone from these hills. We might never run across each other’s trails again, but I’ll watch my back for a few weeks.”
Yancey frowned, tried to speak again but it was too much for him. He lay there, his eyes trying to tell Cato what he wanted to say, but Cato finished doctoring him, then stood up.
“You’ve had a rough time, pard. Now it’s gonna get rougher, ’cause I’ve got to lift you across my shoulder so’s I can get you up the slope. I daren’t rig a rope, not the way that wound is in your side. I don’t want it to bust wide open and start pumpin’ blood again. Be bad enough me carryin’ you.”
“Hold—up.”
“Nope. Sooner we get you back to a town where there’s a decent doc, the better.”
Then Cato leaned down and, settling his feet firmly, he reached for Yancey and with a grunting heave, got the big man draped over his shoulder. Yancey groaned in pain, his breathing fast, and then a sudden rush of blood to his head made him dizzy, as Cato started the first part of the climb out.
It took Cato the rest of the afternoon to get Yancey back to the rim of the draw and, by then, the big Enforcer had passed out again. Cato figured maybe it was better that way, anyhow. While his big pard was out to it, he caught one of the outlaws’ horses that was still grazing nearby and managed to get Yancey roped into the saddle, sitting more or less upright. It was almost dark, but Cato reckoned he couldn’t waste any time getting Yancey to a medic.
He swung aboard his own horse, picked up the reins of Yancey’s mount and started down through the mountain range. He would make the badlands’ crossing during the night when it would be cooler and easier on Yancey. Then, once they hit the Austin trail, he would get him to a medic at the first railhead town, then put him on a train for Austin where Governor Dukes’ personal physician, Dr. Boles, could take care of him.
He would also alert the Rangers and local lawmen that Frank Guthrie was on the loose again.
With any luck they would both be back in the State capital in twenty-four hours, provided he could make a connection with a train for Austin at the railhead.
He was lucky; there was a train ready to pull out for Austin when he rode into the railhead at a place called Tarpit. He used his authority as an Enforcer to have the engineer hold the locomotive until Yancey had been attended to by the local sawbones, a young medic just making his way on the frontier.
The doctor cleaned up Yancey’s wounds with disinfectant and stitched them. He bound up the injured and swollen knee with a tight bandage and shook his head over the poisoned left hand.
“Needs lancing to let out the poison,” he told Cato, “but it’s not quite ready yet. Another twelve hours and it will be, but it’ll be like a balloon by then. I’ll give him something to reduce the fever, but you’d better get him to medical aid again within ten, twelve hours, or it could kill him.”
“I’ll do it,” Cato vowed.
Yancey was talking a lot of gibberish, face flushed scarlet, sweat pouring off his body. They got him loaded on board the train and the engineer broke all records on the run up to Austin. Cato had wired on ahead for Boles to meet the train at the same time he had telegraphed the Rangers about Guthrie’s escape.
Yancey was rushed to the Austin infirmary where Dr. Boles went to work right away. Wearily, Cato sat down in the waiting room and dozed in one of the chairs. He awoke with a start to find a tense Kate Dukes standing beside his chair. Cato rubbed at his eyes and sat up, smiling faintly.
“I can sleep on a fence rail when I’m really tuckered,” he quipped. “Any news about Yancey?”
Kate nodded. “Dr. Boles has lanced his hand and is draining the poison now. He thinks Yancey will be all right in a couple of weeks or so ... thanks to you getting him here so promptly, John.”
He shrugged. “Only by pure luck I found him at the bottom of that slope. Well, I guess I can go sleep in a real bed for a while.”
He frowned as he stood up and Kate put a hand on his forearm, stopping him as he made to step around her. She looked steadily and soberly into his eyes and then reached into her handbag and brought out a dog-eared yellow telegraph form. She hesitated and then held it out towards him. He noticed, as he took it, that her hand was shaking violently.
Cato unfolded the form and read the message, standing rigidly. He read it again, and a third time, before he lifted his stunned face and looked at Kate. He was hardly even aware of the tears that were rolling down her cheeks, or the way her teeth had sunk into her bottom lip, drawing a little bead of blood.
“I—I don’t get this,” he said, his mind numb with shock, totally refusing to accept what he had read. He sat down again, frowning, shaking his head slowly. “I just don’t get it.”
Kate couldn’t speak. She put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed. Cato let the yellow form fall to the floor and if anyone passing had been interested, they, too, could have read the words that had so stunned Johnny Cato.
REGRET INFORM YOU THAT MARNIE DEAD STOP RAPED AND MURDERED BY FRANK GUTHRIE STOP MYSELF BADLY INJURED STOP HE WANTS YOU TO COME AFTER HIM STOP DEEPEST SYMPATHY STOP DOC MARSHALL MESSAGE ENDS