Colfax had estimated that he was about a half mile below the Wheelers’ place when he noticed the black begin to favor her right foreleg. He eased up on her, but continued to move ahead. In a few more steps, she had developed a decided limp, and Colfax stopped her and dismounted. He moved around to her right side and lifted the leg.
“Damn,” he said, following a brief examination of the sole of her hoof, “stone bruise. Hell, I can’t ride you up this hill like that, old girl. Come on. Let’s walk.”
He took the reins in his left hand and started walking up the trail. He hoped that his estimate of the distance to Wheeler’s place was at least close to correct. He sure didn’t want to walk more than half a mile, and he was in a hurry. Some things just can’t be hurried, though, he thought. He recalled that the Wheelers had gone to town in a wagon. Their saddle horses should be in the corral then. He would leave the black there in the corral to be dealt with later and borrow one of Wheeler’s mounts to get on up to Youngblood’s camp. Or should he call it Hughes’s camp? Damn that Rondo Hughes. From the beginning, he had thought that Rondo might possibly be mixed up with Youngblood, but he had decided not to judge the man prematurely. He had thought that it was just as likely that Rondo was telling the truth about himself. He had hired Rondo in order to help himself resolve the question. If Rondo was straight, then he would be some help to Colfax. If Rondo was crooked, he would eventually reveal himself and probably the other rustlers. It was the second possibility that had eventually proved to be true, but Colfax didn’t like it. He had developed a kind of fondness for Rondo Hughes. Damn, he thought, there was a time when I’d have thought the worst about Rondo or about any other man. Sarge has ruined me for this kind of work. Sure as hell, it’s quitting time.
Wheeler’s corral didn’t have a real gate, just a couple of rails laid across the opening in the fence. When he reached the corral, Colfax tossed the rails down and led the black inside the enclosure. He replaced the top rail and unsaddled the black, then gave her a couple of pats.
“Someone will be along and tend to you real soon,” he said.
He turned to look over the horses in the corral. He had been right. There were three cow ponies milling around. They seemed just a bit nervous at the intrusion of a stranger into their midst. He intended to take the bridle and bit off of the black and put it on one of Wheeler’s horses, but out of the corner of his eye he noticed a hackamore lying in the dirt beside the fence on the back side of the corral. It had probably been thrown across the top rail of the fence carelessly and had fallen to the ground. Colfax moved over to the spot where the hackamore lay and bent to pick it up, and there beside it in the dirt something else caught his attention. He knelt in the dirt to inspect it more closely, to be sure.
“Damn,” he said in a barely audible whisper.
It was a clear boot print. It was small, right-footed, and it had a slash across the sole.
Haskell Gibbs was standing at the bar inside the Railhead. He was putting down his third glass of whiskey. Adrian Channing was at the front window, nervously watching the action at the jail. It appeared to be a standoff between the mob and the two men who had moved to stop them.
“Deputy,” he said, “you’ve got to go over there and help those two men.”
Gibbs took another swallow of whiskey.
“Deputy. Damn you, it’s your job.”
“I ain’t going to get myself killed for no throat-cutting murderer,” said Gibbs. “Just leave me alone.”
Channing turned back to the window in disgust and despair, and Gibbs tipped his glass for another slurp, just as a high-pitched and horrified scream ripped through the silence. Gibbs dropped his glass. Channing turned and ran toward the lobby of the hotel. Behind the front desk a startled Monroe Bates gestured wildly as he saw Channing.
“Upstairs,” he said.
Channing took the stairs two at a time, and as he reached the landing at the top, Alma Dyer ran hysterically into his arms. He clutched her to him, looking wildly over her shoulder.
“What?” he said. “What is it?”
“In my room,” said Alma. “Oh, God. It’s Dixon.”
Gibbs stood halfway up the stairs, weaving slightly, and watched as Channing moved down the hallway toward the room.
Youngblood saw the two men sitting on the log by the dead ashes. Even when he recognized them, he kept moving slowly into the camp. He didn’t call a halt until he was close, just across the ashes from Lanagan and Dort. The two men still sat on the log, but they were looking at Youngblood and his crew.
“You’re pretty brave, old man,” said Youngblood. “You and your pet lawman. Coming up here like this all alone.”
“Not alone,” said Lanagan. “Step out, boys.”
Armed cowboys emerged from their hiding places all over the camp. All held guns pointed at the five rustlers.
“We’ve got you dead to rights this time,” said Dort. “Drop your guns and climb down out of them saddles.”
“And then what?” said Rondo Hughes.
“No,” shouted Youngblood, reaching for his six-gun. From his spot beside a tree, Boyd Gruver fired a Henry .44 rifle. The shot hit Youngblood in the sternum knocking him out of the saddle. Hughes made a dive off his horse and ran toward the trees, but a shot tore through the back of his knee, smashing the kneecap as it exited. He roared in pain and fell to the ground rolling, just as Jonsey pulled his revolver out and sent a shot tearing into the left biceps of Billy O. Link, standing in the doorway to the tent just behind Lanagan and Dort, raised a rifle and fired. The bullet smashed into Jonsey’s forehead, causing his head to jerk backward. Then it slumped forward, and Jonsey’s body sagged lifeless in the saddle. The two remaining rustlers lashed their mounts and headed into the river crossing. Halfway across, they were knocked from their saddles by a hail of bullets from the guns of several cowboys in the camp. Sheriff Dort walked over to where Rondo Hughes lay. Hughes had dropped his Colt when he fell. He was reaching out for it when Dort stepped on his hand. Suddenly there was silence, and then the lifeless body of Jonsey slipped from the saddle and fell to the ground with a dull thud.
Colfax had managed to tear his attention away from the telltale boot print in the Wheelers’ corral to get the hackamore on one of the Wheeler horses. As important as the boot print was, there was something about to happen up ahead that was more urgent. He had gotten the horse saddled and out of the corral and had replaced the rails that served as a gate, when he heard the shots. Damn, he thought. He was too late. He kicked his heels into the horse’s sides and lashed at it with the long ends of the reins. It sounded like a small war up ahead, and Colfax knew that he would be a fool to race headlong into something like that, yet he felt a desperation to get there, to try to stop it. He wasn’t sure Why. The ride seemed longer than it had before, in spite of the fact that Colfax was riding it much faster than he had before. He hadn’t gone far when the shots had ceased. He knew it was over. Yet he continued to race up the trail.
When he reached the camp, two cowboys were dragging two bodies out of the river. Two more bodies, one he recognized as that of Youngblood, were lying near the cold ashes of what had been the campfire. Link was tying a red bandanna around the bloody left biceps of Billy O., and Boyd Gruver, on horseback, was slipping a noose over the head of Rondo Hughes, who was mounted, his hands tied behind his back, blood running freely from a wound in his knee. Sheriff Dort was standing behind the horse on which Hughes was mounted.
“God,” said Colfax, and he urged his borrowed horse toward the group beneath the hanging tree. Lanagan stepped toward him.
“It’s over, Colfax,” he said. “Go on back down to the ranch. You’l1 get your pay.”
Colfax rode past Lanagan, moving with more urgency, and Rondo Hughes saw him coming.
“Colfax,” shouted Hughes, his voice a desperate plea. Dort slapped the horse hard across the rump, causing the surprised animal to lunge forward carrying Rondo along with it until the slack was gone from the rope. Hughes was jerked out of the saddle, his feet well forward and high off the ground. Colfax heard the awful choking sound that escaped from Hughes’s throat, saw the body swing gracefully and grotesquely backward, watched as its arcs grew shorter and shorter, saw it spin simultaneously with the swinging, witnessed the changing expressions and complexion on the painfully contorted and horrified face as the life was slowly choked out of Rondo Hughes.
Colfax felt a sudden dull revulsion welling up from the depths of his guts, as if in the very bottom of his stomach there was a small, stale pool of water stagnating, its fetid fumes rising and bringing into his mouth a bitter taste of bile. He felt like there was something in there he would like to vomit forth in order to cleanse himself of its taint. But he had no physical urge to retch, so the unwelcome intruder in his body continued to lie there and fester.
Lanagan walked up to stand beside Colfax, who still sat on the back of the horse from Wheeler’s corral. Both men stared at what had been Rondo Hughes, still spinning and swinging ever so slightly.
“You didn’t even break his damn neck,” said Colfax.
“That’s too bad,” said Lanagan, and the irony was that he sounded as if he meant it. “We didn’t have time to build a scaffold.”
Maybe Lanagan was right. The end would have been the same. There was no doubt of that. Where had Colfax developed this need for propriety? What difference would a trial have made? Colfax knew that if he had been there, the gunfight would have occurred, probably just about the same way. The rustlers would have resisted, and he would have helped to kill them. That part he could easily understand. But the hanging—he wouldn’t have done that, wouldn’t have allowed it to be done. He’d have taken Hughes down to Pullman and put him in jail. There would have been a trial. It would have been handled—properly.
“Your black horse is down in Wheeler’s corral,” he said, not looking at Lanagan as he spoke. “She’s got a stone bruise. You can have one of your cowboys pick her up and tend to her. I’ll stop by your ranch later to get my pay.” He rode down the hill back to Wheeler’s place and put the borrowed horse back in the corral. Then he started walking toward Pullman.
Haskell Gibbs tried to strut as he headed for the mob outside of the jail, but he had poured too much whiskey down his throat to manage it effectively. He staggered and swayed, but he did manage to get himself there. Spud Wheeler still held his shotgun leveled at the mob. Lark still stood with his revolver in hand, pointed at the chest of MacGowan. The mob still stood in a horseshoe shape half surrounding Lark. No one was speaking as Gibbs stepped into the horseshoe.
“You can all put your guns away and go on home,” said Gibbs. “There’s been another killing. That man in there ain’t guilty. I’m turning him loose.”
“Another killing,” said MacGowan. “When?”
“Just now. Well, anyhow, since we put him in there. He couldn’t have done it.”
Lark lowered his revolver, eased the hammer down, and tucked it back into his waistband. Taking his cue from his older brother, Spud eased down the hammers of the long shotgun and lowered it.
“Who’s been killed?” asked someone in the crowd.
“One of them actresses,” said Gibbs. “Her throat’s cut.”
Lark turned to his brother. His face was grim. He took Spud by the arm and started to walk away from the crowd.
“Where the hell’s Tommy?” he said.
“Gibbs,” said MacGowan, “that’s four killings in our town. You got any idea who’s responsible for them?”
“Not a clue,” said Gibbs.
“Well, you’re the law. You better damn well get to the bottom of this. We pay you to protect us here.”
“You all got any complaints,” said Gibbs, “you take them to Sheriff Dort. He’s my boss. He’s in charge. I ain’t. All I do isjust what the sheriff tells me to do.”
“Well, where the hell is Dort?” said MacGowan.
“He’s out taking care of rustlers right now. He’ll be back in here soon. You can take all this up with him when he gets back.”