Here was the lawman Larry had been waiting to see, an ageing but leather-tough Texan, fighting mad and with his gun-hand twitching. Larry was impressed, deeply grateful to Floyd and eager to proceed with the business at hand—a fast ride to Three Springs, a shooting showdown with Brett Stark and his twenty-strong crew.
“You ain’t goin’ it alone, Buck,” he growled.
“Shucks, no,” grunted Georgia Jake. “I rid many a mile to buy myself a piece of this here ruckus, and I ain’t about to be cheated.”
“You can’t keep me out of it,” asserted Floyd.
“Guess again, Doc,” countered Larry.
“You expect me to stay behind?” frowned Floyd.
“Got another mighty important chore for you,” Larry explained. “We can’t take the padre with us, and somebody has to set guard on him, but not here. We’ll rope these dead jaspers to their horses and find another hideout-hole.”
“But ...!” began Floyd.
“Figure it this way,” said Larry. “What happens to you and the padre if some of Stark’s guns make a run for it—and head back this way? Your lives wouldn’t be worth a plugged cent. Better we find another place for you to wait.”
“Plague take Stark and his trigger-happy sidekicks,” fumed Buck. “By now, they’re likely tearin’ that town apart—and it’s all my fault.”
“Maybe, and maybe not,” frowned Larry. “What was that you said awhile ago—about makin’ a deal with Stark?”
“Oh—that?” Buck shrugged impatiently. “I plumb forgot. I sent Anita out with a message, made him a proposition. If he’d swear to leave them towners in peace, I’d meet him at a bend along the trail here and—uh—well—surrender to him.” He showed his teeth in a mirthless grin. “I figured I was dyin’ anyway, so it made no difference.”
“You think Stark would hold to his end of the bargain?” demanded Larry.
“I don’t know,” frowned Buck. “I just don’t know.”
Already, Jake was heaving Lembeck’s body across one of the outlaw horses. Larry and Floyd hustled to lend a hand and, within a few minutes, they were ready to quit the hollow. Padre Ricardo was riding double with the medico. With Larry leading, they climbed to the basin-rim and took off along the town trail at steady speed. Just as Stark had done earlier, Larry carefully scanned the terrain to right and left of the trail, seeking a hiding place for the uncomplaining Franciscan and his courteous bodyguard.
The spot he chose was a thick copse of cottonwood thirty yards to the right of the trail, beyond a craggy, triangular mound of lava-rock. As he reined up, he nodded in that direction, and said:
“Over there, Doc. You and the padre.”
“Well ...” shrugged Floyd.
“Believe me,” said Larry, “this is the best way. We wouldn’t want for the padre to stop a wild bullet, would we?”
“I suppose you’re right,” mused Floyd. “But how long are we to wait here?”
“You’ll stay inside of those trees,” said Larry, “until somebody comes to fetch you.”
“It’ll be somebody from Three Springs,” offered Buck. “Maybe Mex, maybe Americano. Anyways, Padre Ricardo’ll know ’em.”
“One last thing,” said Larry. “In case you need protection.” He had taken possession of the weapons once used by his victims. Now, he handed Floyd a cartridge belt, coiled about a filled holster. “Take it. I hope you won’t have to use it, but you never can tell.”
Floyd nodded soberly, secured the belt to his saddlehorn. Still impatient, and with his anger unabated, the marshal asserted, “We ought to be movin’ on.”
“Sure,” grunted Larry. “We’re on our way.” He touched the brim of his Stetson. “Hasta la vista, Padre, and so-long, Doc. We’ll be seein’ you.”
As he nudged his mount to movement, he glanced back over his shoulder to watch Floyd and the priest making for the copse, leading the three laden death-horses by their reins. Georgia Jake brought his mount up level with the sorrel, on Larry’s right side. Buck was at his left. Stirrup to stirrup, they moved on towards beleaguered Three Springs, as salty a trio as had ever challenged the might of an owlhoot pack in Nevada—or in any other territory.
They rode a quarter-mile in silence, keeping their horses to a steady run. Then, “One thing I’m curious about,” frowned the marshal. “Why’d the Pelham County law send only one man to this territory? Larry must’ve told you what we’re up against here. I don’t savvy why Dreyfus didn’t send a whole posse. If the law wants Stark, this here’s the place to find him.”
“That’s what Larry told a bunch of Pinkertons,” drawled Jake, “as well as Barney hisself. Only—uh—they didn’t pay no mind to what he said. They got this whole situation figured out scientifical, and they claim Stark’ll be headed off somewheres north of the county.”
“Dreyfus,” growled Larry, “is a cotton-pickin’ fool—and that goes double for the Pinkertons.”
“What d’you want from me?” chuckled Jake. “Arguments?”
~*~
Just as Mayor Gilhauser had feared, the Stark gang was now in full control of the settlement—to all intents and purposes, anyway. He had one consolation, which he shared with the grim-faced Stretch Emerson. The riflemen manning the rooftops were still laying low, and Stark was unaware of their presence.
“That’s something I’m grateful for,” he quietly remarked to the lean Texan, “although there’s nothing they can do. They daren’t shoot at the gunhawks. Most of them are Mexicans and, naturally, they’re thinking of Padre Ricardo.”
They were still on the Rialto porch—Stretch, the mayor, Perrier, Frayne and Margolies. A while ago, they had been ordered to dump their weapons into the rain barrel in the alley beside the saloon. Of the five, Stretch had been last to obey that command. And, while dropping his Colts into the barrel, he had noted that it was empty. Of water, not of guns. If he were given any chance of turning the tables on these swaggering desperadoes ...
Already, Stark’s men had commandeered a couple of wagons. Into those vehicles they were loading their spoils. Every store along the block had been ransacked; the invaders were helping themselves to everything they were apt to need, and a great deal that would be useless to them. They were looting for the sheer pleasure of looting. As well as new weapons and boxes of ammunition taken from the hardware stores, the wagons were being packed with provisions, liquor, bolts of cloth, articles of furniture—anything at all.
Stark sat his mount beside the wagons, puffing on a cigar, his face creased in a scathing grin. The barricades had been removed from the alley mouth. As far as he was aware, all of the town’s able-bodied men were in plain sight—and unarmed. His victory was almost complete. Holroyd and two others were in the Yuill Emporium, searching for the gunnysack cached by the doomed Clay Stark. As soon as that money was unearthed, Stark planned on setting fire to Three Springs and ordering his men to turn their guns on the helpless locals—after which he would proceed back along the east trail to meet his brother’s killer, and to gun him down in cold blood. In the meantime, what these God-fearing hicks didn’t know couldn’t hurt them.
In the Yuill Emporium, while the proprietor stood helpless in the street-doorway, Holroyd and his sidekicks continued their search for the cached bank-loot. The counter had been overturned. Stock was strewn from one end of the store to the other. One of the gunhawks took up an axe and was about to assault the wallboards, when Holroyd impatiently reminded him:
“Clay didn’t have time to find that kind of hiding-place. It had to be some place easier.” He stood in the center of the littered store, arms akimbo, eyes slanting to right and left. “Couldn’t have been more than a few minutes between us sneakin’ out the back way and him gettin’ smoked down by the marshal—right in that doorway.”
For a brief moment, he stared at the pot-bellied stove in the center of the store. And then his attention was diverted to something traditional in so many frontier stores—standard equipment—the inevitable cracker-barrel.
Downtown, Anita Craydon had managed to persuade her mother to leave the law office and take refuge beyond the wall of Mission San Pedro. When she identified herself in Spanish, the gate was unlocked and opened by none other than the Padre Superior. The old priest, ushered Carlita through, patted her shoulder comfortingly, then crooked a finger at the younger woman.
“You also my child.”
“No, Padre Pasquale,” said Anita.
“The evil ones have come to Tres Agua,” Padre Pasquale protested. “One honest woman is not safe on the streets of our unhappy poblacion.”
“Don’t worry for me,” frowned Anita. “I will take care—and there is something I must do.”
“When it is done,” said the old priest, “you will come to the mission.”
“This I will do,” she promised.
The gate swung shut again. She heard the clanging sound of the bar being lowered, as she moved along the side alley towards Main Street. In this time of crisis, the eldest daughter of Buck Craydon was as apprehensive as any other local woman, but more indignant than most, more resentful, more determined to strike back at those who, for a time at least, sought to enslave an entire community.
What could she, one angry woman, contribute to this harrowing situation? It seemed there was nothing she could do for her fellow-citizens. As for her family, maybe they would be safe within the mission. And her father? Tears welled in her eyes, as she paused in the alley mouth and stared uptown, to where the homicidal Brett Stark sat his mount and barked orders to his rampaging cohorts. What chance would her father have against such a man?
In a pocket of her voluminous skirt, she carried the small pistol taken from a drawer of her father’s desk, a short time before. Arming herself with that weapon had been an instinctive act; she wasn’t even sure it was loaded, hadn’t seen her father handle it in many years. She thought about him and the fate in store for him, as she studied the hawk-like visage of his would-be executioner.
She came to a decision then, and the magnitude of it started her pulse pounding. Turning right, she walked downtown to the caballeriza of her mother’s brother. The corral behind the stable had been emptied by Stark’s looters. All of her uncle’s prized saddle horses had been herded out, and only one animal remained, a bulky, sad-eyed mare of advanced years. It took her only a few minutes to find saddle and bridle and ready the mare for the trail.
The invaders, concentrated in the area fronting the Yuill Emporium, were unaware that a beautiful citizen of Three Springs was beating a furtive retreat from the settlement, quitting town at its south side, then riding a wide half-circle towards the east trail.
Later, in sight of the trail, with the mare cautiously negotiating a rock-littered downgrade, she felt a surge of new hope. The three approaching riders were still some distance from the base of the slant, but two of them she recognized instantly. With a glad cry, she waved to them. The mare finished its faltering descent and stood docile in the center of the trail, while the trio came on fast, to rein up in a cloud of alkali.
“Anita!” frowned the marshal. “What in blue blazes are you doin’ out here?”
“Marshal,” grunted Georgia Jake, “I ain’t had the pleasure.”
“My eldest daughter—Anita,” growled Buck. “Anita, this is Deputy Rillerby from Pelham City.”
“For gosh sakes, Anita,” challenged Larry. “How’d you get out of town without Stark’s men spottin’ you?”
“You know they have come to Tres Agua—these bandidos?” she demanded.
“We know,” he nodded, “because we already tangled with three of ’em—the three that were settin’ guard on the padre.”
“Padre Ricardo—they have not killed him?” She eyed him anxiously.
“They’re grave-bait,” said Buck, flatly. “The padre’s okay. We got him hid safe—him and a doctor from Pelham. Now you answer me pronto, child! Why’d you sneak out of town? Where’s your ma and your brothers and sisters?”
“In the mission,” she murmured, “with all the others.”
“That’s where you ought to be,” he insisted.
“Dad,” she sighed, “I wanted to help you, but I knew there was nothing 1 could do to stop you—or this bandido. I—I wished to be there—at Curvo Artega. I would have died with you. They would have to kill me, because ...” She dug the old .31 caliber Dragoon Colt from the pocket of her skirt, “… because they would see I was armed.”
“That’s loco!” gasped Buck. “Great jumpin’ Judas—you’d have made ’em shoot you—hell! That’d be damn-near suicide! Ain’t you got no shame? Besides, I don’t need no help. I got checked over by a genuine doctor, and he claims I’m good and healthy.”
“Buck,” chided Larry, “we’re wastin’ time.” He nudged his mount closer to the mare, put a hand on the girl’s arm. “Anita, what’s happenin’ in Tres Agua? Tell us fast.”
“How many of our people,” demanded Buck, “have been killed?”
“There was no killing,” she told him, “before I took this yegua from Tio Antonio’s corral and came to find you. But they steal, they jeer at us. Two carretas are in the street, tilled with what they steal from us—many guns, much food ...”
“Havin’ ’emselves a lootin’ spree, it sounds like,” mused Jake.
“What did Stark do, when you gave him my message?” prodded Buck.
“He sent men to search your office,” said Anita. “And then—I think he believed me. He waits only to find the dinero stolen from the bank by his brother.”
“But Clay Stark’s pards got away with that dinero,” Buck protested.
“This Stark cochino ...” her lip curled, “says this is not so. The dinero was hidden in the store of Señor Yuill. They search for it now.”
“That could be a break for us,” Larry decided. “Might still be time for us to settle Stark’s hash. When these towners learn that Stark has lost his hostage ...”
“Yeah.” Buck nodded grimly. “All hell’s gonna bust loose.”
Larry fired another query at the girl.
“Has Stark disarmed the whole town?”
“All but the men on the techados,” said Anita.
“Are you tellin’ us …” Larry’s eyes gleamed, “that they’re still up there, still squattin’ on the rooftops?”
“Por cierto,” she nodded.
“I can’t hardly wait to see Stark’s face,” scowled Buck, “when I tell him Padre Ricardo is free.” He eyed his daughter worriedly. “But what in tarnation am I gonna do with her? We can’t take her along.”
“Send her back.” Larry jerked a thumb. “Back to where we left Padre Ricardo and the doc.”
“I reckon that’s best,” Buck agreed. “Anita—you know that stand of cottonwood back a ways—where there’s a mound of rock right beside the trail?”
“I will find it,” she assured him.
“Get goin’ then,” he ordered.
Anita turned the mare and dug in her heels. As that venerable animal carried her eastward along the trail, she threw a backward glance over her shoulder in time to see her father and his allies galloping on towards Three Springs. Never in many years had she seen her beloved father moving at such speed. Maybe he had become lazy and, certainly, he was flabby. But finished? No. Far from it, There was still a lot of nerve and grit in Buck Craydon, a father of whom she could justly be proud.
Later, when she reached the triangular-shaped mound, she heard her name called from within the timber. The rotund Franciscan appeared for a moment, beckoning eagerly. She hustled the mare off the trail and rode to the trees. Padre Ricardo took the animal’s bridle and guided her to the heart of the copse, where Floyd was perched on a fallen log beside the horses.
In Spanish, she hastily recounted the events that had occurred in town, and her subsequent meeting with her father, the while the priest assisted her to dismount. And then, remembering the demands of etiquette, Padre Ricardo politely performed introductions. Floyd had risen. Now, he removed his Stetson and gaped like a beardless, overawed boy. Something was happening to him, and the impact was far from subtle. Anita’s lush beauty smote him with all the force of a mule’s kick. His heart jumped, as she accorded him a grateful smile.
“Muchas gracias, Señor Medico,” she murmured. “I think you are the one my father spoke of. You examined him, no? He no longer believes he will die.”
“Many will die this day, in Tres Agua,” sighed Padre Ricardo. “I fear for our people—even tor my brothers of the Mission.”
“There is still hope, Padre,” Anita assured him. “At least our people will fight to protect themselves, knowing your life has been saved by these valiente Americanos.” She looked at Floyd again and asked, with some concern, “You are nauseado, Señor Medico?”
“The good doctor is not sick, muchacha,” opined the priest, with a covert, knowing grin. “This expression I have seen before—on the faces of our young people.” He added, sentimentally, “In the spring—the time of courting.”
“Has he no voice?” she fretted.
“Si—oh, si,” nodded Padre Ricardo. He nudged Floyd with a plump elbow. “Speak, amigo. Do not be afraid. She is but a muchacha.”
“I ...” Floyd swallowed a lump in his throat, “I’m not afraid. Just—uh—stunned. I had no idea. I mean—I’ve seen other Mexican women, but ...”
“Anita is only half-Mexican,” said Padre Ricardo. “You forget she is the daughter of our rurale-—Señor Buck.
“Señora ...” began Floyd.
“Señorita,” the priest diplomatically corrected.
“Señorita?” Floyd grinned elatedly. “You mean she’s—uh—unmarried?”
“For how long she stays unmarried,” chuckled Padre Ricardo, “I would—as you Americanos say—make no bets.”
“Señorita,” beamed Floyd, “is it true Three Springs has no resident physician? I’ve been—uh—seriously considering the idea of establishing a practice in another town and ...” He talked on, eagerly, and won her undivided interest. Discreetly, the priest retreated out of earshot. The three bodies draped over the horses were a sobering reminder of what might have been, and of what could still happen in Tres Agua—the booming of guns, violence, bloodshed, sudden death. He sighed heavily, sank to his knees and crossed himself, to begin a prayer for the salvation of his people.
Meanwhile, Larry Valentine and his cohorts had slowed their mounts to a walk and were changing direction, beginning a cautious approach to the settlement’s east side. Quietly, they passed a cluster of adobe dwellings. Directly ahead was a narrow alley which had its outlet in Main Street-—where Brett Stark and his minions held sway.