Jack Latimer swore as the heavy slug sent splinters of rock flying above his head and kicked up dirt among the bunch and buffalo grass. An instant later the sound of the long gun reached him as he scrambled closer to the rock behind which he was sheltering.
‘You OK, Mr Latimer?’
‘I’m fine, Harry,’ he called back to Wilson who was twenty yards away, hidden behind another rock. There was nothing to gain by keeping his voice down. Ned Fuller knew exactly where he was. But did Fuller know where Harry was?
‘You keep your head down,’ Latimer called again. ‘This damned no-good can shoot.’
‘What we gonna do?’
‘Gimme a minute, Harry. I’m studyin’ on it.’
Latimer breathed in deeply. Just what the hell was he going to do, he asked himself. Collecting taxes and chasing brats into the schoolhouse were the toughest jobs he’d faced for a long while. Maybe in the early years he’d had some hard times but a strong arm and ready sidearm had soon won him peace and quiet. Maybe he’d had it easy for too long. Ten years ago he’d have rushed the cabin and shoved a scatter-gun up this no-good’s butt. But in those days he’d been out of the army only a few months. Now, he and a young feller in his twenties, who’d put on a badge just a few weeks before, were ducking behind rocks trying to stay off Boot Hill. He filled his lungs with air.
‘Ned Fuller! You hear me?’
For a second or two there was only the sound of a bird’s distant cry before a shout came from the cabin fifty yards across the open ground.
‘Who the hell are you? An’ what you after?’
‘Sheriff Latimer of Beaver Creek,’ Latimer called. ‘I gotta posse o’ ten men out here. Give yourself up an’ I promise you a fair trial down in Cheyenne.’
‘You got yerself an’ a kid.’ Fuller’s rough shout didn’t hide the sneer in his voice. ‘I seen you a mile off. I got men comin’ here in a coupla hours. I ain’t in the habit o’ killin’ lawmen but maybe it’s time I got started.’
The no-good was bluffing, Latimer was almost certain. As sheriff of Beaver Creek the land around here was within his jurisdiction. The marshal down in Cheyenne would have Fuller hanged for even shooting at a township’s sheriff. But should he call Fuller’s hand? Both he and Harry Wilson could stay out here for several days if they were forced to. They could pin down Fuller in the cabin until his food, water, and probably his ammunition, ran out. But supposing Fuller wasn’t bluffing? Was it worth the gamble?
Harry Wilson was a steady young man but he hadn’t signed on to get himself killed in the first month in the job. If Fuller held the cards he claimed, and his men arrived, he and Harry would be surrounded before nightfall. Latimer risked a look over the top of the rock, ducking quickly, cursing under his breath, as a slug whistled through the air only inches above his Stetson.
‘Harry,’ he called softly when he’d dropped to one knee.
Wilson, taking his cue from Latimer, kept his voice down. ‘Yes, Mr Latimer?’
‘I’m gonna make a run for that rock this side of the open ground. If I make it I’m then gonna go for the cabin. You gotta keep Fuller pinned down, an’ the second time it’s gonna be harder. Reckon you can do that?’
The young man’s voice was strained. ‘Sheriff, you try that an’ you’ll get yourself killed!’
‘I’m gonna ask you agin, Harry. You reckon you can do that?’
There was a pause. ‘I got two Winchesters here, Sheriff. I’ll keep the owlhoot busy.’ Wilson missed a beat. ‘You get into trouble, an’ I’ll follow you down.’
Despite the gamble he was preparing to take, Latimer couldn’t resist a grim smile. Wilson had steel in his backbone. Even the quiet life in Beaver could sometimes throw up the unexpected. He’d seen his deputy at the annual target-shooting contests, and knew he could shoot, but he’d supposed that when the well-educated Wilson had returned from back East he would join his father and hang up his shingle as one of the town’s lawyers.
‘Fuller’s at the opening to the right of the door,’ Latimer called softly. ‘I reckon he’s not sure where you are.’
‘When you’re ready to go, I’ll make sure he knows.’
‘What you plannin’ to do?’
‘Poke my hat above the rock. He’s gonna have to show himself to take a shot at me. Give me the word, Sheriff, when you’re ready to go.’
Latimer, wishing he had a scatter-gun, started to check his Winchester before realizing he was wasting his time.
Either he reached the rock and the cabin would be within range of his Navy Colt or Fuller would shoot him down as he crossed the buffalo grass. Carrying a long gun might slow him down on what could prove the last run he’d ever make in his life.
He rested the Winchester against the rock and drew his Navy. He pulled out a single slug from his belt. This was no time to have an empty chamber for fear of an accidental shot. The skin tightened over his weather-beaten face as he remembered the crazy Frenchman in his troop at Pea Ridge. ‘You want to live for ever?’ he’d shout to the men once Latimer had issued the order to attack. Frenchie had been hit by a Johnny Reb sniper three weeks later, and the sergeant who’d replaced him was never as good. Latimer put his left hand out to steady himself against the rock, his Navy held ready to fire. He sucked air into his lungs.
‘Ready when you are, Harry!’
A tobacco-coloured Stetson appeared above the rock over where Wilson was hidden. Immediately, a shot rang out as Fuller fired from the cabin. For a brief moment Latimer saw Wilson’s hat fly through the air before he hurled himself from behind the rock. The rapid firing and the ratchet sounds of Wilson loading and reloading his Winchester shattered the stillness of the early summer air. Latimer ran, half crouched, across the buffalo grass. The rock in the middle of the open ground was further away than he’d judged. Its safe haven seemed ever distant, as his boots pounded across the grass, his spurs jingling. His breathing became laboured, sweat running into his eyes. He brought up his arm to brandish his Navy, knowing that at that range only the luckiest shot would hit his target.
He was only six feet from the rock when Fuller must have realized what Latimer was attempting. A slug spurted dirt three feet from Latimer’s boots, and he hurled himself forward, landing full stretch behind the rock, his face pressed down on the ground, the tangy taste of grass in his mouth. His heart was beating so fast he thought it might break through his chest.
He gulped in air. So far so damned lucky! He reckoned it was no more than fifteen paces across the open ground. With Wilson on the higher ground and his own position now closer to the cabin, Fuller was faced with threats from different angles. There was a lull in the firing and Latimer scrambled to a kneeling position behind the rock, careful to show nothing of himself to Fuller. Suddenly, three rapid shots came from the cabin. Latimer jerked his head around to look towards where he’d left Wilson. The deputy was out of sight. Had he been hit? Had he showed too much above the rock prompting Fuller’s rapid fire?
Latimer pushed himself to one knee, keeping his head down, and unstrapped his spurs. Between shooting, there was a chance that Fuller would hear them as he ran towards the cabin. He looked around to the rock where he’d last seen his deputy. He had to assume Wilson hadn’t been hit. Again Latimer filled his lungs with air. One last run, he told himself. If he made it, he’d reach the wall of the cabin.
He took off his hat and waved it from side to side, before ramming it back on his head. He waited, ready to spring from behind the rock and charge towards the cabin. Nothing stirred. Where the hell was Wilson? Then a sudden movement right caught his eye, and he guessed the meaning of Fuller’s three rapid shots. The crazy kid must have run from the cover of his rock to three tall cottonwoods way over to Latimer’s right, forcing Fuller to shift his aim away from Latimer. There’d never be a better chance of making the cabin.
He burst from behind the rock, his gun-hand held rigid before him. He could see Fuller clearly now at the opening in the cabin, turned in the direction of Harry Wilson, and firing his own Winchester as rapidly as he could. Fuller had pushed open one of the cabin’s stout oaken shutters to give him greater protection from the fire that poured down from Wilson’s long gun, unaware for the moment of the threat coming at him from across the open ground.
Latimer was only ten yards away from the cabin when Fuller must have realized that Latimer was bearing down on him, and swung his long gun around. Arm rigid, maintaining his pace, Latimer pulled the trigger of his Navy three times. The first slug caught the Winchester, tearing it from Fuller’s grasp, the weapon slamming back against the shutter. The second sent splinters of wood spraying over Fuller as he staggered back under the force of the slug. The third found its target, and Fuller howled with pain as he fell out of sight into the interior of the cabin.
Breathing heavily, his gun hand extended, Latimer slowed to a walk, moving cautiously forward. He reached the shutter of the cabin, and stood for a moment against the cabin wall, before swinging suddenly to thrust his Navy through the opening, ready to fire at the slightest movement. Nothing stirred. On the floor of the cabin, Fuller was face down, a bloody stain spreading across his shirt. Latimer saw that his slug had cut a furrow along Fuller’s shoulder.
‘The doc’s gonna patch you up, you sonovabitch,’ Latimer said aloud to the groaning Fuller. ‘You’re gonna be just fine when they hang you down at Cheyenne.’
*
The townsfolk poured out of stores and workshops onto the boardwalk to see Latimer and Wilson bringing in Fuller to the jail at Beaver Creek. With Latimer in the lead, they rode in single file, Fuller in the middle, Harry Wilson bringing up the rear.
Men dressed in city suits, others in dusty coveralls, a couple of old-timers standing in front of the batwing doors of the saloon with beer mugs in their hands, all cheered the progress of the three riders. Smart ladies in dresses that swept the boardwalk and girls still young enough to have their hair down clapped their hands as Latimer walked his roan along the hardpack of Main Street. On the balcony of Luke Bartram’s saloon half a dozen of the calico queens shouted their praise.
‘You can have a free one, tonight, Sheriff,’ Tess from Texas called out, and the girls screamed with laughter. ‘Me, too, Mr Latimer,’ another called out, and there was more loud laughter. Several of the ladies on the boardwalk exchanged frowns, tutting loudly their disapproval.
Latimer looked behind him to check that all was well. The outlaw’s hands were tied to the pommel of his grey. Around Fuller’s neck was the noose of Wilson’s 32 feet of hemp, the dally end secured to the pommel of Wilson’s saddle.
‘You wanna make a run for it,’ Latimer had told Fuller, once they’d lashed him to his own horse. ‘You go ahead. Save the hangman down at Cheyenne a job.’
Fuller had spat at him. ‘No hick sheriff’s gonna keep me in a country jail for one day more than I need to rest up.’
And despite the grim smile Latimer kept on his face as he continued his way down Main Street, acknowledging the shouted congratulations of the townsfolk with a finger to the brim of his Stetson, he knew Fuller could have hit the mark. The cages at the rear of his office were fine for drunken cowboys on a Saturday night. A man like Fuller would take some holding. The sooner the marshal from Cheyenne arrived for his monthly visit in a day or so, and took Fuller away, the sooner he could relax. He drew level with the smithy where Sam Charlton stood in his leather apron, a couple of paces from his anvil, red-hot iron pincers glowing in his hand.
‘Sam, I’m gonna need you across the jailhouse,’ Latimer called. ‘Got some work for you, an’ I need it done fast.’
‘I’ll be there, Sheriff.’
Latimer reached his office and turned his roan’s head towards the hitching rail. He stepped down to the hardpack with an easy motion as the horses ridden by Fuller and Harry Wilson came up to the rail. Fuller sat still, his head up, his hard eyes surveying the press of townsfolk that grouped close.
‘OK, everybody,’ Latimer called to them. ‘Show’s over. Any o’ you folks wanna join this no-good in a cage?’
There was an excited murmur of noise and the group split promptly, men and women retreating across Main Street, not really believing that Latimer meant what he said. But it was better to be safe than sorry. As Mayor Gibbons had once said, ‘Sheriff Latimer can be a mite ornery when he’s a mind to.’
Latimer untied Fuller’s hands and removed the noose from his neck before stepping up to the boardwalk and unlocking the door. ‘Bring him up, Harry,’ he ordered. Not waiting, he entered the office and crossed to open a low cupboard. From a deep drawer he took two lengths of heavy chains with shackles attached at each of their ends. He turned as Fuller and Wilson came through the door.
‘You goin’ yeller on me, Latimer?’ Fuller sneered as he saw the shackles.
Latimer ignored him. ‘Take him through to one of the cages,’ he ordered his deputy. ‘We’ll shackle this owlhoot to the bars until Sam Charlton fixes things.’
Coarse laughter erupted from Fuller. ‘You sure are somethin’, Sheriff. Don’t you fergit to attend the sewing circle this week!’
Latimer looked at him for a second, his face expressionless. Then he stepped forward quickly and smashed the pointed toe of his boot into Fuller’s kneecap. Fuller let out a yell of pain, cursing loudly, as he fell sideways to the floor. Latimer looked down at Fuller who was grasping his knee, his face screwed up in agony.
‘You watch your mouth, Fuller, or it’s gonna be hard on you for the next two or three days.’ Latimer looked at Wilson. ‘Grab his other arm, Harry.’
Latimer and Wilson dragged the still cursing outlaw through the door at the rear of the office and along the small passageway to one of the two empty cages.
‘Now stand back, Harry,’ Latimer said, after they’d heaved Fuller onto the bunk. ‘He makes a wrong move while I’m shackling him, an’ you shoot him.’
Latimer snapped on the shackles around Fuller’s legs and one arm, before leading the length of chain to secure it around the bars of the open door of the cage. He went back to the bunk and pushed his face close to Fuller’s.
‘You listen hard! I run a decent place here. You’ll get three squares, and maybe more coffee when we’ve a mind to,’ Latimer said. ‘Doc Mills’ll be across to fix you up, an’ we’ll get you another shirt from your saddlebag. But you give me trouble an’ you’ll go to Cheyenne in the back of a wagon. You got that?’
Fuller, his eyes burning with hate, stared back at Latimer. He nodded abruptly.
‘Let’s hear you say it.’
Fuller pulled back his mouth, baring his teeth. ‘I got it.’
‘We get the next cage ready, an’ you’ll lose the shackles.’
Latimer backed away out of Fuller’s reach, his hand resting on the butt of his Navy, before turning on his heel and following his deputy back into the office. While Wilson went across to the stove and poured coffee into two tin mugs Latimer eased himself down in the chair behind his desk. He blew air through pursed lips.
‘Gimme one o’ those, Harry, an’ take the other to Fuller. Leave your sidearm here.’
Wilson nodded. He drew his Colt and placed it on a table, and picked up the two mugs. ‘You reckon Marshal Locke’ll be here in a coupla days?’
Latimer looked at the calendar pinned to the wall. ‘Maybe three. I’ll be glad to get rid of this damned no-good. Soon as the marshal arrives we can take life a mite easier.’ He took a mouthful of his coffee feeling the hot black liquid warming his gullet. ‘You did just fine today, Harry. I was glad to have you along.’
Wilson, obviously pleased with Latimer’s words, went through to the cages carrying the mug for Fuller. As he pushed through the doorway the street door opened and Sam Charlton stepped in from the boardwalk. For a moment his massive build cut through the rays of the midday sun streaming through the open door.
‘Sam, the cages need fixin’. I could bust outa there with a butterknife.’
Beads of sweat stood out on Charlton’s face. His skin was so black that his high cheekbones looked almost purple. He unwound the towelling scarf from around his neck and wiped his face. His grin was wide.
‘Been like that for a while, Mr Latimer. Cowboys you bin puttin’ in there couldna handled a butterknife on a Saturday night.’
‘Guess you’re right, Sam. Town’s been a mite quiet these past years.’
‘Down to you, Sheriff,’ Sam said. ‘Reckon Mr Wilson’s got himself a good boss,’ he added, as the deputy came back into the office. ‘I’ll get my tools.’
He stood aside as a tall man wearing a grey Prince Albert and an immaculate white Stetson stepped into the office. ‘Howdy, Mr Bartram.’
‘Howdy, Sam.’ Bartram shook his head as Wilson offered him a mug of coffee. ‘No thanks, Harry.’
Bartram took the chair opposite Latimer’s desk, a smile showing on his even features. ‘Have to hand it to you, Jack. What was it last election year? Little gal you fished outa that old well back of the dry goods store. You swept up the votes of the ladies without drawing breath. I reckon half of ’em woulda made a husband of you.’
Latimer laughed aloud. ‘The ladies got their votin’ rights, just like you an’ me, Luke. Don’t know ’bout the other part, though.’
Bartram jerked a thumb in the direction of the cages. ‘What was the no-good plannin’? The old silver mine’s worked out and ain’t worth a nickel, an’ it’d take ten men to blow that new safe in the bank. Payroll at the mill ain’t due for another month.’
‘Fuller ain’t a thief, Luke.’ Latimer pulled open a drawer in lis desk and pulled out a creased and dirty poster. ‘Take a look at that.’
Bartram took the poster to read the lines below the artist’s rough impression of Fuller’s features, before letting out a low whistle. ‘“Wanted for murder,”’ he read aloud. ‘“Edward Ezekial Fuller, known as Ned Fuller, hired killer and assassin. Five hundred dollars reward if captured alive. One hundred dollars dead.”’ Bartram frowned. ‘Sounds like some mighty important folks want to see him hang. But what the hell was a no-good like Fuller doin’ in these parts?’
Latimer shook his head. ‘Beats me. If he hadn’t holed up in old Jake Palmer’s cabin when Jake was out prospectin’ I’d never have known Fuller was around. Jake spotted him in time an’ remembered he’d seen this poster the last time he was in here. He was damned lucky he didn’t get hisself killed.’ Latimer’s mouth twisted. ‘I’m aimin’ to get rid of Fuller as soon as the marshal arrives. Fuller’s mebbe got some of his men headin’ this way.’
‘Then they ain’t comin’ from Fort Laramie way.’
Latimer frowned. ‘I ain’t followin’ you, Luke.’
‘I clear forgot you ain’t heard yet. The bridge on the trail is down. I crossed the bridge with the two men I just hired and the engineer closed the bridge behind us. Feller said it’d be out for a week or more. Your marshal ain’t gonna be here for a while.’