“He’s lost a lot of blood,” somebody protested, seemingly from the other end of the world.
“I don’t give a hoot what he’s lost,” another voice snarled. “I want him awake.”
Rae wanted to open his eyes, but the effort even of that seemed more than he could make. He realized vaguely that the voices were arguing over him, but he could attach no importance to their argument. His shoulder hurt, but not even the constant pain could penetrate the torpor that held him.
“I’m telling you again,” the first voice said. “He wasn’t one of them. Somebody fired warning shots before they hit us. If it hadn’t been for those, we’d have been caught cold turkey. I think it was him. Because when he came in, he was the only one wasn’t masked and he wasn’t shooting at us. It was them he was fighting. I saw him knock one of ’em over just as he was about to burn me down.”
The other voice grunted. “This was your first real fight. When you’re older, you’ll learn your imagination plays tricks on you. Hell, yes, he was one of ’em. He’s always been one of ’em. And until we finally corpse him once and for all, we’ll never have no more peace on this range.”
Then somebody was shaking him, roughly, brutally. Pain from his shoulder lanced through him with fresh intensity; it brought him awake, yelling.
And it was daylight, gray dawn, and he was looking into the grinning, triumphant face of Cleve Anders.
“I thought that would bring you out of it,” Anders chuckled. He was squatting beside Rae, his eyes glinting with pleasure and anticipation. “Well, buddy, you finally overreached yourself, didn’t you? You’ve given us a right rough time of it; you’ve rustled and burned and murdered and every time we laid a hand on you, you’ve squirmed loose. But you’re through squirmin’ now, I’ll guarantee you. You and your outfit didn’t count on me showin’ up with six new gun hands, did you?” He paused a minute, taking his makings from his shirt pocket. “Well, we got a right nice stack of dead rustlers here. And you’ll jest fit on top of the pile.”
He stood up and put his arm around Will’s thin shoulders. “You bit off more’n you could handle when you tackled ole Will here and me. Together we make a real team, huh, Will?” He withdrew his arm and slapped Will on the back. “The boys tell me you handled them two guns like Billy Bonney hisself.”
For a moment, Will’s eyes glowed under this flattery, but then his face went serious again and he stepped a pace away from Anders. “It wasn’t like I thought it was goin’ to be,” he said. “It was ... it was a mess.” His mouth twisted.
“Aw,” Anders grunted, “you jest got buck fever now it’s all over. This fight’ll spread your name all over Colorado. And when they hear that you’re the one finished off Rae Marsh, it’ll spread a lot farther than that. You’ll have that gunman’s rep you’ve been hankerin’ after so long. You’ll be famous.”
Will’s eyes widened, his mouth dropped open. “Me?”
“Well,” Anders said casually, “somebody’s got to do it. And I ain’t interested in buildin’ up no rep.” He shrugged. “Ever since you was so high, you’ve dreamed of nothin’ but bein’ known all over as a fast man with a Colt. This’ll give you your chance.”
Will just stood there.
“Listen,” Anders snapped, “you ain’t even thinkin’ about that crazy claim of his that he’s old John’s son, too, are yuh? I tell, that’s a bunko game, a cock-and-bull story. He ain’t got no more of John Marsh’s blood in him than I have!”
Will turned slowly and looked down at Rae.
“He’s got my eyes,” he said quietly. “And that letter—and it’s Dad’s handwritin’.”
“That writin’s so shaky nobody can tell whose it is,” Anders scoffed. “And you’re imaginin’ that part about the eyes. He’s a bunko artist that come in here and tried to run his game on us, and when that didn’t work, he showed his true colors and went to rustlin’. Hell, if he was really John Marsh’s son, why didn’t John tell us about him? Why did he keep him a secret?”
“You know how Mom was,” Will said. “So crazy jealous. She would have hit the ceilin’ if she’d known he’d been married before.” But he looked undecided, as if Anders’ arguments were eroding his certainty. He was, after all, Rae thought sickly, only a kid, used to being under Anders’ thumb, used to deferring to the older man, used to accepting his judgments.
“He’s a rustlin’, killin’ wolf,” Anders said harshly, “and he’s gotta be wiped out like one, and his hide nailed to the barn door. Even if he was my kin, I wouldn’t want to claim ‘im. I wouldn’t want the world even to think I had anything to do with a lobo like this ‘un.”
During all this argument, Rae’s head had begun to clear; he could feel, with wakefulness, a measure of strength coming back to him. He wrestled himself to a sitting position, and as he did, Anders whipped out a gun and covered him.
“Even with one arm in a sling, he’s dangerous as a snake,” Anders rasped. “You can’t take your eye off him fer a minute.”
Rae looked around. He was next to the wagon in the Circle M camp. Out on the flat, he could see the herd. A few riders were still saddling up, and the cook was hunched over his fire a distance away; he and Anders and Will were out of earshot of all of them.
“Anyhow, if he can sit up, he can ride,” Anders said. “A little piece. He won’t have to ride but a little piece.” He grinned at Will. “Come on. Let’s git it over with, before this slippery bird thinks up some new trick.”
“No,” Will said. “No, we got to take him in. He’s got to have a trial, and this matter of his third’s got to be settled in court. Dammit, Cleve, we can’t take this kind of thing on ourselves.” He looked down at Rae. An edge of bitterness crept into his voice. “But you promised me the rustlin’ would stop. We lost two good men last night.”
“Ford double-crossed me,” Rae said shakily. “But I tried to give you warnin’. You look up there on the hill, you’ll find another dead rustler. I plugged him as they were comin’ down.”
Will’s face was still somber. “But what was you doin’ up there in the first place? You give me another promise, remember? That you’d ride out of here, make no more trouble. How come you were up there watchin’ the herd to begin with?”
Rae was silent for a moment. Then his eyes swiveled to Anders.
“I come to kill him,” he said hoarsely.
He saw the shock that washed over Will’s face. “After you made me that promise?”
Anders let out a roar. “You see? He’s a lousy, bushwhackin’ skunk! And I’m through wastin’ time. If you won’t do it, I will.” He reached down and grasped the slack of Rae’s shirt. “On your damn’ feet!” And he yanked Rae to his feet by main strength.
Rae gagged at the ferocious pain that swept through him, and the world seemed to go around and around. He leaned against the wagon for support, unable to speak.
“Bart!” Anders’ voice boomed. “Catch up three horses an’ bring ’em here.”
Then he turned to Will. “I don’t think we need any more palaver. You heard him say it with his own mouth.”
Will rubbed his face, shielding his eyes with his hand for a moment. Then he let out a breath. “You’re right,” he said. “I’ve been a fool.” He took his hand down, and now his face was fierce, merciless, as he looked at Rae. “I run up on him out in the back country yesterday. I could have burned him down then, and I was a sucker not to. But I thought ... I thought if he was my half brother, I ought to give him one last break. He promised me there’d be no more rustlin’. He promised me he’d clear out right away. And both promises broke. I’d have had a tighter guard out if it hadn’t been for that promise.”
Anders’ voice was, for him, gentle, understanding, clinching Will tighter to his side. “Hell, you’re still a young-un. Nobody blames you. The thing is, now we’ve got ’im and we got to handle him like he deserves and we ain’t gonna waste no time about it. Here come th’ horses.”
He took the reins. “Bart, we’re gonna escort this polecat on into town to th’ law, where he’ll git a nice, fair trial.” He grinned. “But if you should hear a shot, don’t let it spook yuh. After all, fix he’s in, it’s likely he’ll try to escape.”
The puncher, Bart, grinned back. “Sure,” he said. “I know what you mean. After last night, one more shot ain’t gonna spook nobody. And you shore don’t want him gittin’ away.” He turned and strode toward the fire.
Anders jabbed Rae with the gun barrel. “All right. Climb aboard.”
Rae just leaned against the wagon wheel, gasping with the pain of his wound.
“Hell, he’s too weak to mount by himself,” Anders said, swinging up. “Give him a hand, Will— but watch out he don’t grab one of your irons.” He kept the muzzle of his gun hard on Rae.
Will went to Rae and his hands were none too gentle. Rae dimly realized that Anders had planted a seed in Will that was building into bitter fury. Even if Will himself would not perform the execution, he would no longer object to it.
Rae shook his head. Damn it, if he could only think. If the pain would only stop, his brain only clear. But as Will tussled him up into the saddle, the pain flared anew, making him gasp and cling to the horn, lacking any strength to resist.
Then the horse was moving, each step it took sending fresh agony through Rae. He could feel wet warmth in the bandage around his shoulder; his wound was seeping blood. It was all he could do to hang on.
“He’s damned sick,” Will said.
‘That’s all right,” Anders said. “He ain’t got far to go and he’ll be outa his misery in a minute.”
Then they were in a grove of pines. The horse stopped. Anders’ voice said, from out of a blur, “This ought to be about right. I just wanted to git out of sight of the men. No use havin’ any more waggin’ tongues than anybody can help. Pull him down.”
Rae felt Will’s hands helping him. His feet touched ground, and he leaned against the bole of a big pine, gasping. A little of the pain went away now, or maybe he was getting used to it. He raised his head, focused his eyes with intense effort. Anders, gun out, was standing in front of him. Will a little to one side.
“Well,” Anders rasped, “you wanta do it, or you want me to? Remember, this is your chance to git real famous.”
Will’s face was pale. He swallowed and licked his lips. “I—”
Rae summoned all his strength. “Wait,” he croaked.
“Wait, hell,” Anders said, thumbing back the hammer.
“No, wait,” Will said. “He’s tryin’ to say somethin’.”
“I don’t want to hear anything he’s got to say,” Anders grated. But before he could pull the trigger, Will had stepped in front of the gun.
“Just hold your fire a minute,” he said. “Let him say whatever it is—”
“Git outa th’ way!” Anders roared in sudden fury.
“Cleve killed John Marsh,” Rae husked.
“What?” Will turned, still shielding Rae. “What’s that you said?”
“Ask Doc Miller. That’s why I was comin’ after him. He poisoned John Marsh with the dope John Marsh was takin’. Doc Miller knows. Crystal knows, too.”
Will stared at Rae, then whirled. “What’s all this?” he flared at Cleve.
Anders snorted. “Bellywash. That’s what. John’s heart failed.”
“Lie,” Rae snapped, his hatred for Anders greater than his pain or weakness. “John told Cleve . . . about me. Cleve killed him to keep him from seein’ me, givin’ me a third of Circle M. John was supposed to live sixty, ninety days longer. But Cleve was afraid I’d come before then.”
“I’ve had enough of this,” Anders roared. “Stand outa th’ way, Will—for th’ last time.”
“No,” said Will sharply. “No, there’s not gonna be any execution. Not until I’ve talked to Doc Miller. Put your gun up, Cleve.”
“The hell I will!” Anders shouted, and now his face was mottled with fury. Suddenly he thrust the gun forward. “Yes, dammit, I poured that stuff in John. Sure—but it was jest to put him outa his misery, the way you’d shoot a horse with a broken leg. He was bound t’ die anyhow—why string it out?”
“Cleve.” Will’s voice was a shocked whisper.
But Anders’ face was transformed now. It was a twisting, hating mask and his eyes were gleaming. “Well, dammit, you’re not fool enough yourself to wanta give away half of what you own in Circle M to this joker—half of a fortune? Now stand aside or—or dammit, I’ll blow a hole in you too and say he did it and then I’ll own the whole spread, I won’t hafta worry about either one of you! Move!”
But Will only stood frozen for a moment, staring incredulously at his stepbrother. Then a cry came from deep within him, a cry of rage and grief, and suddenly he drew. His draw was miraculous; Rae had never seen its equal. The gun was in Will’s hand as if by magic, and even as Anders pulled the trigger, Will’s gun roared, too.
It was drawing and firing into a dead drop, and if Will had not been a miracle of gun swiftness, he would have been a dead man. But even though Anders’ gun was out and cocked, Will’s bullet plowed home first by a fraction of a second, and though the two shots thundered almost simultaneously, the slug from Anders’ gun whined off through the trees. Then Anders was clutching his belly, sinking to his knees, face contorted with agony.
He tried to raise the gun again, pointing it at Will. “Damn you both,” he choked. “Circle M shoulda been all mine.”
Sobbing, Will watched Anders lift the Colt, slowly, weakly. Before it could come into line again, Will kicked out. The gun went flying, and Anders rolled onto his side, knees doubled up.
Then Will was on the ground beside him, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Cleve. You made me do it. Why . . .? Why . . .?”
Blood was coming from Anders’ mouth; his voice was a fading, breathy croak. “Shoulda done for you th’ same time I done for th’ ole man. Mistake . . .”
But Will ignored that. “Cleve,” he said again, and he cradled Anders’ head in his lap. “Hell, Cleve ... ”
But Anders rolled away. He began to kick convulsively. It was a horrible thing to watch. At last his drumming feet slowed; then he sprawled motionless, eyes half-open, staring sightlessly. The gush of blood from his mouth slowed and died.
Will got to his feet, staring down in horror, his thin body trembling. In that moment, Rae wished he had strength enough to go to him. He knew what was happening inside Will. This was different, vastly different, from last night’s battle.
Will turned slowly, his white face working. “He was all you said he was,” he whispered. “But ... I grew up with him. He was my brother, too.” Suddenly, with a savage gesture, he hurled the pistol he held far into the pines. Then his left hand swooped down and drew the other gun and it went flying, too.
“Dammit!” he cried. “Dammit!”
Rae’s eyes followed the flung guns; he could see them gleaming in the underbrush. And along with the sympathy he felt for Will’s anguish, a vast relief grew in him. This killing, Rae knew, would last Will all his life. There was no more gun-pride left in him and it would never come back. And that would be the kid’s salvation.
The grim life and death of Cleve Anders had borne that much good fruit, anyhow.