“I’ve got to get out of here!”
Kate Dukes hurried across the room as Yancey threw off the bed covers and tried to swing his legs over the side of the bed. But, before she reached him, his face drained of color and he sagged back on the pillows, closing his eyes and gripping the edge of the mattress tightly. Kate shook her head slowly, pushed his legs back into bed and drew the covers over him. He looked up at her.
“Now will you believe me and Dr. Boles when we say you’re not fit yet to be up and about?” she said with annoyance in her voice. “You need to recover more of your strength yet before you think about moving out of here Yancey Bannerman.”
He nodded slowly. “Maybe,” he told her tightly, still not willing to give in all the way. “But someone’s gotta go help Johnny before he gets himself killed. He’s taking fool risks!”
“Yes, he is,” Kate agreed, “but two of you taking fool risks would make the whole thing worse.”
“Damn it, I could slow him down! He’d listen to me; Even if he didn’t, I could soon figure what he had in mind next and be one jump ahead of him, or back him up when he needed it. This way, he’s a lone gun and he’s going to walk into something he can’t get out of unless he gets some help.”
“Johnny Cato doesn’t want any help right now, Yancey,” Kate told him. “He wants to do this thing alone. You can understand how he thinks.”
“Sure, and that’s just why I’ve got to get out of here and help him. He don’t give a damn for himself right now. He’ll take any kind of risk just to get a crack at Guthrie. But the odds are getting too big. Look, Johnny’s wiped out the Harlow bunch and the Fogarty gang up in Mustang Canyon. He’s gone through Del Rio and Uvalde like a Texas twister, leaving dead men strewn all over the trail. Latest word is he was hit in the Uvalde shoot-out, but no one seems to know how bad. Well, it doesn’t have to be too damn serious to slow him down just enough to double the danger. He nearly nailed Guthrie in Uvalde, it seems, and might’ve got him if that hombre hadn’t back shot him.”
“I know, Yancey,” cut in Kate, sympathetically, “but if you …”
“He was just plumb lucky the bullet didn’t smash his spine,” Yancey went on, as if she hadn’t spoken. “By now Guthrie’s getting mighty desperate, I’d say. A lot of his pards won’t touch him with a corral pole. They figure that Cato ain’t the only one after him, that the other law-enforcement agencies won’t be far behind. And they’re right. But the Rangers and marshals are using Cato. They know he’ll work a hell of a lot harder than they can, that he’ll get his information without having to worry about the restrictions of the law, the way they have to operate. So they’ll give him a free rein and they’ll move in when they’re close enough. But Johnny knows this, too, and he won’t want ’em cramping his style, so he’ll give ’em the slip when he can and work alone ... and that’s how he’s likely to get himself killed.”
Kate stared at him, mulling it over. “And you want to go and help him—wounds half-healed, one hand heavily bandaged and still showing signs of infection, weak from all the blood you’ve lost.” She shook her head slowly. “You’re plumb loco, Yancey Bannerman.”
He looked up at her soberly. “Maybe. But there are two reasons why I’ve got to go help him, Kate. The first you don’t need to be told.”
“Because he’s your friend,” she said, a little tightly.
“That’s it. We’ve ridden a lot of trails together. I owe him plenty.”
Kate sighed. “You men and your ‘code’! And what is the second reason why you think you have to risk your life to be with Johnny Cato?”
Yancey looked levelly at her for some time before he said, quietly, “Because it’s my fault Marnie’s dead.”
The girl rocked as if someone had slapped her in the face. “What?”
“I let Guthrie escape. I should’ve shut Johnny up when he was talking about Marnie and where he was going, within earshot of Frank Guthrie. I gave Guthrie a wide-open trail to follow straight to Marnie Hendry at Caplock, just as sure as if I’d posted signs all the way.”
“Yancey that’s foolish! And you know it! Three men jumped you and nearly killed you. You had to shoot your way out. It was no fault of yours that Guthrie got away!”
“I figure it is,” he told her flatly. “And just as soon as I can, I’m going to him, Kate.”
And she knew there was nothing she could do or say that would stop him.
“I only hope I get there before he gets himself killed,” Yancey added grimly.
~*~
Frank Guthrie ran for his horse, hearing the door of the secluded shack burst open behind him and knowing the guns would start barking in a moment. Luckily it was dark, pitch dark, here on the hillside and they wouldn’t see him right off, coming out of a lighted room like that.
But they started shooting anyway, blindly, haphazardly, hoping the lead would bring him down. He knew exactly where he had left his mount tethered and he knocked the reins loose from the tree branch and hit the saddle. He crouched low over the animal’s neck, pulled its head around and walked it away down the sandy side of the slope. He could tell by the gun-flashes on the cabin porch that the men there were still shooting wild, and for the moment, they were aiming in the other direction.
Once he was a few yards downslope, he knew the hump of the dune was between him and the cabin. Then he slapped the horse across the rump with his hat, kicked with his heels, and lifted it to a gallop. It was a dangerous maneuver on the steep, loose side of the dune, but he was desperate, knew he could still be shot out of the saddle before he reached the bottom.
The huge oval of the saltpan gleamed palely in the faint starlight and he knew, when the men topped the dune they would see him silhouetted against the salt. It would give them a definite target.
Suddenly the air around his face erupted as if torn by a swarm of bees and he knew they had him spotted. He urged the mount on, swung around the edge of the pan, hoping the crust wouldn’t break under the galloping hoofs. He heard the bullets zipping into the salt, sending crystals spraying in brief sparkles of light. The dune’s heavy black shadow was only fifty yards away. If he could make that, he would be safe for now. They wouldn’t bother coming after him.
They kept firing until he had disappeared into the deep black shadow, then the gunfire stopped abruptly and the only sounds were his own and the horse’s heavy breathing and the squeak of the hoofs racing over the sand.
By hell, that had been a close one! Charley Kane’s bunch were the last ones he figured would turn on him, but they had made it plain enough: Vamoose. They wanted no part of him. Not because of the crime he had committed, but because they knew Cato was implacably dedicated to the vengeance trail and he would never give up, unless he was killed in the process. And Kane didn’t want Cato harmed. Like most of the other lawless men, he figured Rangers and local law, maybe U.S. marshals, or even other Enforcers, would be dogging Cato’s trail, hoping he would lead them to Guthrie.
Besides that, Governor Dukes had slapped a five thousand dollar reward on Guthrie’s head, and there were many men who would try to collect it.
Frank Guthrie knew this, too, and only now was he getting the germ of an idea that might not only get him sanctuary, but would also stop Cato dead in his tracks. For Guthrie had now become the hunted in every sense of the word.
Killing the girl had been a mistake, he knew that now. If he had had any brains, he would have simply taken her hostage, used her to get Cato under his gun and then he could have done what he liked with her, where Cato could see. Afterwards, he could have killed Cato slowly.
Now, because he had killed the girl first, Cato had busted loose like a madman and was tearing the West apart in his manhunt, leaving a trail of dead behind him. Guthrie had earned the hate of men of his own calling for bringing Cato down on them with, they were sure, all sorts of law only a frog’s leap behind. He had made himself an outcast. Not that it mattered, really, he hastily assured himself. The idea was still to see Cato die for having killed Tag, but Frank Guthrie had suddenly decided that he didn’t necessarily have to do it himself. In fact, the point had arrived where he had to do something to protect himself, not only from Cato, but from his fellow outlaws.
The damned reward posted by Dukes had done it. Five thousand dollars could win—and lose—a man a lot of friends. But he figured ten thousand dollars could only win him allies. Provided he applied it in the right direction. But first he had to get the ten thousand dollars.
Eagle Pass, down near the Rio, was the closest town where he might pick it up. There wasn’t a lot of gold-bearing country in Texas, but Eagle Pass was on the edge of an ore-rich area. And there was a Wells Fargo station, just outside of the town, a swing-station where passengers had time enough only for a meal or a wash while a fresh team was hitched to the Concord coach. But the stop was long enough for what Guthrie had in mind.
He wasn’t sure how far along his backtrail Cato was, so he didn’t want to show himself in the town of Eagle Pass proper. Cato could well be there, looking for information or picking up supplies. Maybe the Enforcer didn’t know he was in this neck of the woods yet, but he wasn’t willing to take that chance. Cato had the knack of turning up within a few miles of him at the most unexpected times. Last he had heard, Cato was somewhere on the far side of the saltpan, but he knew Cato wouldn’t take long to figure out which way he had gone.
The man had come close to nailing him in Mustang Canyon. There had been a couple of close shaves since, too, one where he had actually been leaving the rear of a trailside saloon while Cato was coming through the batwings. The man seemed to have the luck of the devil. He could take on all odds, down the men trying to kill him, and then take off on Guthrie’s trail again and be within shooting distance before he could spit.
Nothing seemed to stop Cato. In a remote outlaw settlement, Guthrie had given his last few dollars to a couple of hardcases to bushwhack Cato as he rode through a snaking arroyo, where he would have sworn no man could have gotten out alive. But Cato had; though the hardcases were still there, meat for the buzzards.
It had unnerved Guthrie and, finally, he knew there was only one way to handle this. The money he aimed to steal from the Eagle Pass Wells Fargo station would help him get rid of Cato off his backtrail once and for all.
He rode into the swing-station openly, looking, he hoped, like any trail-weary drifter aiming to kill a couple of hours and wash-up before heading on into town. No one seemed to pay him much attention as he ordered a meal and asked that it be ready by the time he had washed some of the dust and dirt from himself at the tin tub on the bench out back. The whole service cost him under fifty cents, which was just as well, for all the money he had now came to less than a dollar. The agent’s wife served him beefsteak and corn pone and threw in a wedge of apple pie when he told her what a great cook she was. He was just finishing his meal as the stage rolled in and all the men, and the woman, too, were occupied with the passengers’ wants. Some wanted to eat, some wanted to wash up, some only wanted to stretch cramped limbs. The guard and driver went into the big kitchen for refreshment ... likely a drink of rotgut whisky from the agent’s stone jug. The roustabouts handled the change-over of the teams and, as usual, there was considerable dust and commotion while they unharnessed the horses.
No one took any particular notice of Guthrie as he finished his meal, got up and walked casually to the door. He stopped to roll a cigarette and, at the same time, took note of the activity outside. The roustabouts were taking it easy now that the agent was inside entertaining the guard and driver. Guthrie had seen the same thing happen on a dozen stations such as this, especially if the stage was running on schedule. The roustabouts went down behind the big barn . with the old team and took it easy, out of sight of the main building.
Tag had told Guthrie about this place once, a long time back. He had been riding the stage through and had noted how lackadaisical the station men were, even when the coach was carrying gold in the express box. They’d had it on their list to rob one day. It was kind of fitting now, that Tag’s idea was going to be used to help nail his killer.
Frank Guthrie flicked away his cigarette and strolled casually over towards the stage coach. He looked inside and saw that the express box, painted its distinctive green, was jammed under the driving seat, a heavy brass padlock glinting in the hot sun. Guthrie looked around and saw there were horses moving down in the corrals, milling about, which meant the roustabouts were starting to bring up the fresh team, so he had to work fast.
His own mount was tethered with loose reins at the hitch rail at one side of the station building. It was about ten yards away and he doubted if he could lug the express box over there before the roustabouts, or someone else, showed. So the time for subterfuge was over. Even as he started to wrestle the box out from under the seat, he saw that the guard had left his shotgun on the floorboards. He chuckled. That was what came of being complacent. There hadn’t been a stage robbery on the Eagle Pass run for two years, because the last man who had tried it had been run down by a posse of miners and they had strung him up on the spot. It had served as a warning to others not to try to steal the miners’ hard-earned gold.
Guthrie aimed to break the trouble-free run right now. He yanked the box out violently, bracing one boot against the wheel-spokes. It came loose with a screech of wood against the iron frame of the seat. He fell with the weight, staggered upright and grabbed the shotgun off the seat as the first roustabout rounded the big barn and saw him.
“Hey!” the man bawled.
And that was all he had time for. Guthrie fired a barrel of the shotgun one-handed and the charge of buckshot lifted the roustabout off the ground and flung him five feet away. The recoil also sent Guthrie stumbling. He brought the gun up again, laying the smoking side-by-side barrels across his forearm, as the guard and driver came charging out of the door of the station. The shotgun thundered again and the charge cut down both men. The agent leapt back for cover and snapped a shot at Guthrie with his Colt as the outlaw dropped the shotgun now and lifted the box in both arms, running for his horse. He had his gun in his hand and he triggered three times, making the agent keep his head down. The stage driver was writhing on the ground but there was no sign of movement from the guard.
Guthrie heaved the box up into the rope sling that was already hanging behind the cantle of his saddle then he swung up into leather, whipped the horse’s head around and set the animal towards the corrals.
The second roustabout was well out of sight, undercover somewhere, as Guthrie rode clear through the corrals, firing into the air, driving off fresh and weary horses alike. They smashed down the rear lodgepole barriers and took off across the flats. Guthrie rode after them, hearing a rifle whiplashing behind now. He turned and saw the agent down on one knee, sighting with a rifle. A couple of passengers belatedly started firing at him with six-guns. Guthrie crouched over his horse’s neck and urged it on. It was slowed down by the weight of the express box, but he aimed to ride in the dust pall of the stampeding horses until they ran out of steam and slowed down. Then he would catch one and take off with a spare in tow, and he reckoned the way he knew this country, he would shake any posse that came after him.
And, pretty soon, Cato would be off his backtrail for keeps.