South of Deadwood

The Cheyenne to Deadwood Stage was two hours late into Pole Creek Station, and George Gates, the driver, had tried to make up for lost time. Inside the coach the five passengers had been jounced up and down and side to side as the Concord thundered over the rough trail.

The girl with the golden hair and gray eyes who was sitting beside the somber young man in the black flat-crowned hat and black frock coat had been observing him surreptitiously all the way from Cheyenne.

He had a dark, Indian-like face with a deep, dimplelike scar under his cheekbone, and despite his inscrutable manner he was singularly attractive. Yet he had not spoken a word since leaving Cheyenne.

It was otherwise with the burly red-cheeked man with the walrus mustache. He had talked incessantly. His name, the girl had learned with no trouble at all, was Walter Luck.

“Luck’s my name,” he stated, “and luck’s what I got!”

The other blond was Kitty Austin, who ran a place of entertainment in Deadwood. Kitty was an artificial blond, overdressed and good-natured but thoroughly realistic in her approach to life and men. The fifth passenger had also been reticent, but it finally developed that his name was James J. Bridges.

“I want no trouble with you!” Luck bellowed. “I don’t aim to cross no bridges!” And the coach rocked with his laughter.

The golden-haired girl’s name, it developed, was Clare Marsden, but she said nothing of her purpose in going to Deadwood until Luck asked.

“You visitin’ relatives, ma’am? Deadwood ain’t no place for a girl alone.”

“No.” Her chin lifted a little, as if in defiance. “I am going to see a man. His name is Curly Starr.”

If she had struck them one simultaneous slap across their mouths they could have been no more startled. They gaped, their astonishment too real to be concealed. Luck was the first to snap out of it.

“Why, ma’am!” Luck protested. “Curly Starr’s an outlaw! He’s in jail now, just waitin’ for the law from Texas to take him back! He’s a killer, a horse thief, and a hold-up man!”

“I know it,” Clare said stubbornly. “But I’ve got to see him! He’s the only one who can help me!”

She was suddenly aware that the dark young man beside her was looking at her for what she believed was the first time. He seemed about to speak when the stage rolled into the yard at Pole Creek Station and raced to a stop.

Peering out, they saw Fred Schwartz’s sign—CHOICEST WINE, LIQUOR, AND CIGARS—as the man himself came out to greet the new arrivals.

The young man in the black hat was beside her. He removed his hat gracefully and asked, “If I may make so bold? Would you sit with me at supper?”

It was the first time he had spoken and his voice was low, agreeable, and went with his smile, which had genuine charm, but came suddenly and was gone.

“Why, yes. I would like that.”

Over their coffee, with not much time left, he said, “You spoke of seein’ Curly Starr, ma’am? Do you know him?”

“No, I don’t. Only …” She hesitated, and then as he waited, she added, “He knows my brother, and he could help if he would. My brother is in trouble and I don’t believe he’s guilty. I think Curly Starr does know who is.”

“I see. You think he might clear your brother?”

There was little about Curly Starr he did not know. Starr, along with Doc Bentley, Ernie Joslin, Tobe Storey, and a kid called Bill Cross had held up the Cattleman’s Bank in Mustang, killing two men in the process. Billy Marsden, son of the owner of the Bar M Ranch, had been arrested and charged with the killing. It was claimed he was Bill Cross.

“I hope he will. I’ve come all the way from Texas just to talk to him.”

“They’ll be takin’ him back to Texas,” the young man suggested. “Couldn’t you have waited?”

“I had to see him first! I’ve been told that awful gunfighting Ranger, Chick Bowdrie, is coming after him. He might kill Starr before he gets back to Texas.”

“Now I doubt that. I hear the Rangers never kill a man unless he’s shootin’ at them. Have you ever met this Bowdrie fellow?”

“No, but I’ve heard about him, and that’s enough.”

Gates thrust his head in the door. “Time to mount up, folks! Got to roll if we aim to make Deadwood on time.”

Clare Marsden hurried outside and Walter Luck stepped up beside her.

“Seen you talkin’ with that young feller in the black hat. Did he tell you his name?”

“Why, no,” she realized. “He did not mention it.”

“Seems odd,” Luck said as he seated himself. “We all told our names but him.”

Kitty Austin drew a cigar from her bag and put it in her mouth. “Not strange a-tall! Lots of folks don’t care to tell their names. It’s their own business!”

She glanced at Clare Marsden. “Hope you don’t mind the smoke, ma’am. I sure miss a cigar if I don’t have one after dinner. Some folks like to chaw, but I’m no hand for it, myself. That Calamity Jane, she chaws, but she’s a rough woman. Drives an ox team an’ cusses like she means it.”

Luck had a cigarette but he tossed it out of the window as the stage started.

The young man in the black hat reached into his pocket and withdrew a long envelope, taking from it a letter, which he glanced at briefly as they passed the last lighted window. He had turned the envelope to extract the letter, but not so swiftly that it missed the trained eye of Gentleman Jim Bridges. It was addressed, Chick Bowdrie, Texas Rangers, El Paso, Texas.

Bridges was a man who could draw three aces in succession and never turn a hair. He did not turn one now, although there was quick interest in his eyes. There was a glint in them as he glanced from Bowdrie to the girl and at last to Walter Luck.

“If you plan to see Starr, you’d better get at it,” Luck suggested. “Texas wants him back and I hear they’re sendin’ a man after him. They’re sendin’ that border gunfighter, Chick Bowdrie.”

“Never heard of him,” Bridges lied.

“He’s good, they say. With a gun, I mean. Of course, he ain’t in a class with Doc Bentley or Ernie Joslin. That says nothin’ of Allison or Hickok.”

“That’s what you say.” Kitty Austin took the cigar from her teeth. “Billy Brooks told me Bowdrie was pure-Dee poison. Luke Short said the same.”

“I ain’t interested in such,” Luck replied. “Minin’ is my game. Or mine stock. I buy stock on occasion when the prospects are good. I don’t know nothin’ about Texas. Never been south of Wichita.”

Bowdrie leaned back and relaxed his muscles to the movement of the stage. Clare Marsden aroused his sympathy as well as his curiosity, yet he knew that Billy Marsden was as good as convicted, and conviction meant hanging. Yet if his sister was right and Starr knew something that might clear him, he would at least have a fighting chance. How much of a chance would depend on what Starr had to say, if anything. The court would not lightly accept the word of an outlaw trying to clear one of his own outfit.

If he had even a spark of the courage it took to send his sister rolling over a thousand miles of rough roads, he might yet make something of himself.

Chick had himself made a start down the wrong road before McNelly recruited him for the Rangers. It had been to avenge a friend that he had joined the Rangers. It led to the extinction of the Ballard gang and the beginning of his own reputation along the border. Yet since he had ridden into that lonely ranch in Texas, badly wounded and almost helpless, he had never drawn a gun except on the side of the law.

It was easy enough for even the best of young men to take the wrong turning when every man carried a gun and when an excess of high spirits could lead to trouble. Chick Bowdrie made a sudden resolution. If there was the faintest chance for Billy Marsden, he would lend a hand.

Dealing with Curly Starr would not be simple. Curly was a hard case. He had killed nine or ten men, had rustled a lot of stock, stood up a few stages, and robbed banks. Yet so far as Bowdrie was aware, there were no killings on Starr’s record where the other man did not have an even break. According to the customs of the country that spoke well for the man.

When the stage rolled to a stop before the IXL Hotel & Dining Room in Deadwood, a plan was shaping in Bowdrie’s mind. He was the last one to descend from the stage and his eyes took in an unshaven man in miner’s clothing who lounged against the wall of the IXL, a man who muttered something under his breath as Luck passed him.

Stooping, Bowdrie picked up Clare’s valise with his left hand and carried it into the hotel. She turned, smiling brightly. “Thank you so much! You didn’t tell me your name?”

“Bowdrie, ma’am. I’m Chick Bowdrie.”

Her eyes were startled, and she went white to the lips. He stepped back, embarrassed. “If there’s any way I can help, you’ve only to ask. I’ll be stayin’ in the hotel.”

He turned quickly away, leaving her staring after him.

Bowdrie did not wait to see what she would do or say, nor did he check in at the hotel. He had sent word to Seth Bullock, and knew the sheriff would have made arrangements. He headed for the jail.

Curly Starr was lounging on his cot when Bowdrie walked up to the bars. “Howdy, Starr! Comfortable?”

Starr glanced up, then slowly swung his feet to the floor. “Bowdrie, is it? Looks like they sent the king bee.”

Bowdrie shook his head. “No, that would be Gillette or Armstrong. One of the others.

“Anyway, I’ve a lot of work to do when I get you back, Curly. There’s Bentley, Joslin, Tobe Storey to round up.” And then he added, “We’ve got the kid.”

Starr came to the bars. “Got any smokin’?”

Bowdrie tossed him a tobacco sack and some papers. “Keep ’em,” he said.

“Curly,” he said as Starr rolled his smoke, “the kid’s going to get hung unless something turns up to help him.”

“Tough.” Curly touched his tongue to the paper. “We can go out together, if you get me back to Texas.”

“I’ll get you back, settin’ a saddle or across one, but that kid’s pretty young to die. If you know anything that would help, tell me.”

“Help?” Starr chuckled. He was a big, brawny young man with a hard, square brown face and tight dark curls. “You’re the law, Bowdrie. You’d hang a man, but I doubt if you’d help one.”

“He’s a kid. I’d give any man a break.”

“He was old enough to pack a gun. In this life a man straddles his own horses and buries his dead. Nobody is lookin’ for any outs for me. Besides, how do I know you ain’t diggin’ for evidence against the kid? Or all of us?”

Despite himself Bowdrie was disturbed as he walked back to the IXL. He was positive the man Luck had spoken to was Tobe Storey. He had had only a glimpse, but the man’s jawline was familiar, and the Pecos gunman could have ridden this way.

What if they had all ridden this way? What if they planned a jailbreak? Curly Starr was the leader of the outfit and they had ridden together for a long time.

Later, in the dining room of the IXL, he loitered over his coffee. Deadwood was wide open and booming. Named for the dead trees along a hillside above the town, it was really a succession of towns in scattered valleys in the vicinity.

The Big Horn Store, the Gem Theater, the Bella Union Variety Theater, run by Jack Langrishe, and the Number Ten Saloon all were busy, crowded most of the time.

After leaving the jail, Bowdrie had drifted in and out of most of the places, alert for any of the Starr outfit. Now he sat over coffee for the same purpose, waiting, watching.

The door opened and Seth Bullock appeared. With him was Clare Marsden. As her eyes met Bowdrie’s, she flushed. Bowdrie arose as they came to the table.

“Bowdrie, this young lady wants to talk to Curly Starr. I told her Starr was your prisoner and she would have to ask you.”

“She can talk to him,” Bowdrie replied. From the corner of his eye he glimpsed a man standing just inside the saloon, looking into the dining room. It was the man he believed was Tobe Storey.

“Tonight?” Clare asked.

Bowdrie hesitated. It was foolhardy to open the jail now unless necessary, but …

“All right. I’ll go along.”

As she turned toward the door, he hesitated long enough to whisper to Seth Bullock, “Tobe Storey’s in town, and maybe the rest of that Starr outfit.”

She walked along beside him without speaking, until suddenly she looked up at him. “I suppose you think I am a fool to come all this distance to help a man who is as good as convicted, even if he is my brother.”

“No, ma’am, I don’t. If you think there’s a chance for him, you’d be a fool not to try, but if you’ve any reason for believing your brother wasn’t involved, why not tell me?”

“But you’re a Ranger!” The way she said it, the term sounded like an epithet.

“All the more reason. You’ve got us wrong, ma’am. Rangers don’t like to jail folks unless they’ve been askin’ for it. Out on the edge of things like this, if there weren’t any Rangers there’d be no place for people like you.

“If your brother took money with a pistol, he’s a thief and a dangerous man, and if he killed or had a part in killing an innocent man, he should hang for it.

“If he didn’t, then he should go free, and if Starr has evidence that he’s innocent, I’ll do my best to clear him.”

They turned a corner but a sudden movement in the shadows and the rattle of a stone caused Chick Bowdrie to swing aside, brushing Clare Marsden back with a sweep of his arm.

A gun flamed from the shadows and a bullet tugged at his shoulder. Only his sudden move had saved them, but his gun bellowed a reply.

He ran to the mouth of the alley, then stopped. It led into a maze of shacks, barns, and corrals, and there was nobody in sight. The ambusher was gone.

He walked back to Clare. She stared at him, pale and shocked. “That man tried to kill you!” she protested.

“Yes, ma’am. I am a Ranger and they know why I am in town.”

“But why here? Deadwood is a long way from Texas!”

“I am here to take Starr back. They don’t want him to go. If your brother was involved in that hold-up, the man who tried to kill me is his friend. Or an associate, at least.”

“My brother wouldn’t do any such thing!” she protested, but her voice was weak.

He had expected something of the kind. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully as they neared the jail, remembering something he had noticed earlier.

The deputy on guard opened the door cautiously, gun in hand, then opened it wider when he saw who was there.

Starr was sprawled on his bunk. A big man in a checked shirt, jeans stuffed into cowhide boots.

He swung his feet to the floor. “You again? Was that you they shot at?”

“Wouldn’t you know?” Bowdrie saw Starr’s eyes go to the tear in the shoulder of Bowdrie’s shirt. “Close, that one. I reckon the boys aren’t holdin’ as steady as they should.”

His eyes shifted to Clare, and he came quickly to his feet, surprise mingled with respect. He could see at a glance that she was a decent girl, and he had that quick western courtesy toward women. “How d’you do, ma’am?”

“Curly, this is Clare Marsden, sister of Billy Marsden. The law thinks he is Bill Cross. She hopes you can tell her somethin’ that will get her brother off the hook.”

Starr shrugged contemptuously. “Is this another trick, Bowdrie? I won’t give evidence, not any kind of evidence. I don’t know anybody named Marsden, or Cross either. I’ve nothing to say.”

“You can’t help me?” she pleaded. “If only Billy wasn’t with you! Or if he was only holding the horses or something!”

Curly avoided her eyes. He looked a little pale but he was stubborn. “I don’t know nothin’ about it.”

“You were seen an’ identified by four men, Curly.” Bowdrie’s tone was gentle. “So was Tobe. Everybody in town knew Bentley. That leaves Joslin and the kid. We have no description of Joslin, but the kid was identified by one man and he was caught under suspicious circumstances. If you can save his neck, why not do it?”

She stared helplessly for a moment, then dropped her hands from the bars and turned away with a gesture of hopelessness that caught at Chick’s heart.

“Starr, I knew you were a thief but I didn’t think you were a damned louse! This won’t do you any good.”

“I’ll do myself some good before we get to Texas. I’ll have your hide, Bowdrie. It’s a long road home and I’ll get my break.”

At the door of the IXL Bowdrie paused. “You’d best go home, ma’am. Most outlaws aren’t like him. They are rough men but many of them are pretty decent at heart. I am sorry.”

“Thank you, and I am sorry for what I said. You really tried to help me.” Tears welled into her eyes and she turned away.

He stared after her, and swore under his breath.

         

The wind had a way of rippling the grass into long waves of gray or green, and it stirred now, rolling away over the sunlit prairie. Bowdrie, astride the appaloosa gelding he had bought in Deadwood, rode beside his prisoner.

Curly Starr, his chin a stubble of beard, stared bleakly ahead. “You won’t get me much further! Ogalalla’s ahead, an’ I’ve friends riding the cattle trails.”

“You talk too much. I’ve prob’ly just as many friends as you’ve enemies among those herds, too. You stole too many horses, Curly. I’ll be lucky if I get you back to Texas unhung.” He paused. “What happened to Tobe an’ Doc?”

“How would they guess you’d ride fifty miles west out of Deadwood? That you’d ride fifty miles out of your way to keep me away from them? But you’re back on the cattle trails now, an’ they’ll find us.”

It had been a hard ride. On impulse Bowdrie had taken his prisoner out of Deadwood on the same night he left Clare Marsden at the door of the IXL. He headed due west, only later turning south and heading for the tall-grass country.

Ogalalla, which lay ahead, was a tough trail town and a dozen Texas herds were gathered nearby. Bowdrie had friends there, as did Starr. When things went well for him, the big outlaw was a friendly, easygoing man who had punched cows with many of the trail hands. Those friends would not forget.

Bowdrie kept his plans to himself. He had no intention of going into Ogalalla at all. He would camp at Ash Hollow, then head south again, keeping west of Dodge on a course roughly parallel to the proposed Nation Trail, until inside the Texas boundaries. At that time he would veer west toward Doan’s Store and Fort Griffin.

“They’ll be good hunters if they find us,” Bowdrie commented. Starr looked at him, but said nothing. He had been watching the stars, and was puzzled.

At dusk they camped in a canyon where a few ash trees grew and which had been named Ash Hollow by Frémont. They made camp close to the spring, and then taking Starr with him, Bowdrie went down to a moist place in the brush where gooseberries and currants were growing. When they had picked a few to supplement their supper, they walked back.

“You takin’ these irons off me? I’ll sleep better if you do.”

Bowdrie smiled. “And I’ll sleep better with them on, so why don’t you just settle down an’ rest? Nobody is going to turn you loose unless you get a smart Texas lawyer.”

Despite their continual bickering, the two men had come to respect and even like each other during the ride. Curly Starr was typical of a certain reckless, devil-may-care sort of puncher who often took to the bad trails when the country was wild. He was not an evil man, and under other circumstances in another kind of country he might never have become an outlaw.

Bowdrie was not fooled by his liking for the man. He knew that at the first chance Starr would grab for a gun or make a run for it. By now the outlaw knew something had gone awry with their planning. He kept staring around at the spring, then the ash trees.

“Hey?” he exclaimed. “This place looks like Ash Hollow, west of Ogalalla!”

“Go to the head of the class,” Bowdrie replied.

“You’re not goin’ into Ogalalla?” Disappointment was written in his expression. “Ain’t you goin’ to give me any chance at all?”

“Go to sleep,” Bowdrie said. “You’ve got a long ride tomorrow.”

When he picketed the horses he took a long look around. Earlier he had glimpsed some distant riders who rode like Indians.

He slept lightly and just before daybreak rolled out of his blankets and got a small fire going. Then he went for the horses. He was just in time to see an Indian reaching for the picket pin. The warrior saw him at the same instant and lifted his rifle. Bowdrie drew and fired in one swift, easy movement. Grabbing the picket ropes, Bowdrie raced back for the shelter of the trees.

Curly was on his feet. “Give me a gun, Bowdrie! I’ll stand ’em off!”

“Lie down, Starr! If it gets rough I’ll let you have a gun. In the meantime, just sit tight.”

A bullet clipped a leaf over his head, another thudded into a tree trunk. Chick rolled into a shallow place in the grass and lifted his Winchester.

An instant he waited; then he glimpsed a brown leg slithering through the grass and aimed a bit ahead of it and squeezed off his shot. The Indian cried out, half arose, then fell back into the grass. A chorus of angry yells responded to the wounding of the warrior.

Bowdrie waited. This was, he believed, just a small party on a horse-stealing foray, and two of their number were down. His position was relatively good unless the Indians decided to rush them. Which they promptly did.

Dropping his rifle as they broke from the brush and arose from the grass, Bowdrie drew both six-shooters. He opened fire, dropping the nearest Indian; then with his left-hand gun he got the man farthest on the right. Then they vanished, dropping into the grass and the brush. One warrior was slow in getting under cover and a rifle boomed behind Bowdrie and the Indian fell.

Bowdrie turned swiftly, covering Starr. The outlaw grinned at him. “Had to get in one shot!” he protested. Yet Bowdrie saw the man had started to swing the rifle to cover him. Only his quick turn with the pistol had stopped it.

He grinned again. “Hell, Bowdrie, you can’t blame a man for tryin’!”

He nodded toward the area beyond their brush screen. “No real war party, just huntin’ horses an’ a few scalps.”

An hour later they were on their way. It was short-grass country now and would be all the way back to Texas. There might be occasional belts of tall grass, but it was going to be scarce. Bowdrie kept them moving at a stiff pace, knowing Starr’s followers would almost certainly figure out what had happened. He could not avoid them much longer.

Undoubtedly even now they were working their way west to cut his trail, and when they came, it would be fast.

When they did come, it was a surprise. Bowdrie had holed up in a deserted cabin in the upper Panhandle of Texas. Theirs had been a long, hard ride under blazing suns, cold nights, and sometimes showers of pounding rain. As they reached the cabin, Starr said, “You’re goin’ to a heap of trouble just to hang a man. Why don’t you let me go?”

“Hangin’ you isn’t important,” Bowdrie replied, “but I’ve got a job to do and you’re part of it. The day has come when a man can no longer live by the gun. Two men were killed in that robbery of yours. Both of them had wives, one of them had two youngsters.

“Hangin’ you won’t bring back their father or that other woman her husband, but it might keep some other father or husband alive.

“Society is not taking revenge. It is simply eliminating someone who refuses to live by the rules.”

Starr swore and spat into the dust. “Get me back to wherever you’re takin’ me, Bowdrie, or by the Eternal you’ll have me converted! But keep them guns handy, boy. If I get a hand on one of ’em, I’ll have a chance to be glad you aren’t leavin’ a widow!”

“Get busy an’ pick up sticks. We’ll need a fire for coffee.”

On the edge of the hollow where the cabin lay, Chick paused and took a careful look at the surrounding country. His nerves were on edge, and in part it was due to the long ride with a man who was ready to kill him at any slight chance, a man with everything to gain and nothing to lose. Around the next hill or down the next draw his friends might be waiting.

Doc Bentley, Joslin, and the rest were all plainsmen and by now they would have figured out what he was doing and they would expect him to turn east, which he must do to deliver his prisoner. Also, they were on the edge of Kiowa-Comanche country.

Bowdrie studied the situation. The adobe cabin was built in a hollow in a rocky canyon with a spring close beside it. There were a few cottonwood trees, and a couple of huge tree trunks that lay near the cabin. The view from the door overlooked the trail and the approach to the spring. The cabin had often been a refuge for buffalo hunters and had figured in many a brush with Indians, judging by the bullet scars.

With an armful of wood on his left arm, Bowdrie walked back to the cabin. Working with the handcuffs on, Curly Starr had a fire going. He looked up, smiling.

“As long as they sent a Ranger after me, I’m glad they sent one who could cook. I believe I’ve gained weight on this trip.”

Bowdrie built his fire of dry wood to eliminate smoke. Earlier, crossing the plains, he had killed an antelope. Now he cut steaks and began to broil them. He knew better than to relax.

“Always keepin’ an eye out, aren’t you?” Starr said. “I see you’re pretty handy with a gun, too. You’ll have to be if you ever tangle with Doc or Joslin.

“That Ernie’s a pretty hand himself, you know. I had an idea he might try to cut me down someday. He wanted to boss the outfit himself, but he’s too bloody.

“Between the two of us, it was Doc an’ Joslin who did the killin’. I led them to that bank and I wanted the money, but I never figured on no killin’.”

“Then why don’t you give the Marsden kid a clean bill, Curly? He’s young enough, an’ he might turn into a pretty decent man.”

“Or he might turn into a country lawyer.” Starr glanced at him. “That pretty sister of his must have sold you a bill of goods.”

A quail called out in the tall grass beyond the cottonwoods. There was a shade of difference in Starr’s tone when he added, “She seemed like a mighty fine girl, at that.”

Bowdrie was squatted beside the fire. His ear caught the change in Starr’s tone. It had come right after that quail called. He pushed the coffeepot against the glowing sticks, pushed others closer.

He glanced around casually. Starr was sitting up more and he had drawn one foot back so the knee was bent and the foot was flat on the ground. His hands, still in the cuffs, lay loosely on his right side. At an instant’s warning he could roll over and make a run for it.

Bowdrie’s mind raced. His rifle was twenty feet away, leaning against the wall of the adobe cabin. He was between it and Starr. Starr’s best bet if Bowdrie was attacked was to run for the shelter of the cottonwoods, climb a horse, and get out of there. As for himself, he would never make the cabin. He would have to fight it out right here, behind that log.

There was no sound but the bubble of coffee in the pot. He tossed Starr a cup. “Here!” he said.

Curly grabbed it but his eyes sparked. Bowdrie knew where they would be, among the cottonwoods. The toss of the cup had put Curly off guard, but for the moment only.

Curly had but one thing to do. To get away. Bowdrie had to both keep his prisoner and fight off three gunmen.

Bowdrie heard a rustle among the leaves and he turned, drawing as he wheeled. He fired into the brush from which the movement came, and as he fired Starr dropped his cup and lunged to his feet. Bowdrie had anticipated the move and he swung back and down with the barrel of his pistol, stretching Starr unconscious beside the fire.

Bowdrie dropped behind the log and snapped a quick shot at a stab of flame from the brush. Rolling over, he crawled the length of the log, getting closer to the doorway and his rifle.

“Hold it, Bowdrie!” a voice called. “Turn Starr loose an’ you can ride off!”

It was the moment he wanted, for they would be listening for his reply and not poised to shoot. With a lunge he was through the door and inside the adobe house. Two bullets struck the doorjamb as he went through.

“You boys come in with your hands up,” he called, “and I’ll see you get a fair trial!”

“You’re a fool!” somebody grumbled. “You haven’t a chance. We’ll burn you out!”

“Anytime you’re ready!”

The fire was blazing brightly and to approach the cabin they must make a frontal attack. He reached around the doorpost and got his Winchester.

In the corner of the adobe was a huge pile of sticks, part of it a pack rat’s nest, part of it wood for the fireplace, left by nameless travelers. Taking up one of the sticks, he tossed it into the fire. As the fire blazed up, he detected a slight movement from Curly Starr.

“Curly,” he spoke loud enough for the outlaw to hear, “don’t make any sudden moves. If you try to escape, I’ll kill you. I don’t want to, so don’t push your luck.”

He waited, and all was still. Nobody wanted to rush him as long as the fire was burning brightly. He threw another stick into the fire. In the next half-hour three of the five sticks he threw landed in the fire. Yet it was a long time until morning.

Starr had witnessed the brief battle with the Indians and had no idea of taking the risk. He reached for the coffeepot, snared it and a cup, and calmly filled the cup.

“Thanks, Bowdrie. All the comforts of home!”

“I should have hit you harder,” Chick replied cheerfully. “You’ve a thick skull.”

“You hit me hard enough. My head feels all lopsided. Why don’t you be smart and turn me loose?”

“They’d kill you,” Chick said.

“Kill me? Are you crazy?”

Although the outlaws could hear him talking, they would not be able to distinguish the words.

“When the shootin’ was goin’ on, one of the bullets was aimed for you. Missed by mighty little.”

“You’re lyin’! Doc an’ Tobe are my friends!”

“What about Joslin?”

Curly Starr was silent.

After a while he threw another stick into the fire and somebody shot at him, but the bullet was high. Later, he glimpsed the flickering light from a fire back in the trees, sixty or seventy yards away.

Starr spoke suddenly. “Did you mean that? About the shot?”

“It hit the log right over you, and couldn’t have been aimed at me.”

Bowdrie waited, studying the fire. He could barely see it flickering but decided to take a chance. Lifting his rifle, he fired three quick shots. He was shooting through underbrush, which might deflect a bullet, but at least one shot got through. Sparks shot up from the fire and somebody swore.

Later, he must have dozed, because he awakened with a start. Undoubtedly the outlaws were waiting until morning, not relishing an attack past the firelight.

Bowdrie crawled to the hole where the spring was. The old gourd dipper was probably dusty, but … He dipped up water and poured some over his head, then dipped again and drank.

The spring was right outside the wall, but the first resident or someone later had removed adobe bricks so the spring could be reached without going outside in case of an Indian attack. Suddenly Bowdrie got out his knife and began digging at a brick beside the hole. Carefully he removed several of the crumbling adobe bricks. Then he tossed a couple of sticks on the fire.

Returning, he slipped through the hole and flattened against the rock wall beyond the spring. He waited, but nothing moved.

Placing each foot with care, he moved away from the house. By the time he was close to the fire the sky was growing gray. One man was asleep, the other was placing fuel under the coffeepot. He was about to step out when the sleeping man opened his eyes and got to his feet suddenly. His eyes focused on Bowdrie, realization hit him, and he gave a startled yip and went for his gun. Bowdrie fired, but the man was weaving and his bullet missed.

A bullet whipped past his face, another hit his holster, half-turning him with its force. He fired again and Doc Bentley fell back against a tree.

Bowdrie swung his gun to Tobe, who, startled by Doc’s surprised move, had shot too fast. Bowdrie’s bullet caught Tobe Storey in the middle of the stomach and he stepped back and sat down. He started to lift his gun but could not. He fell sidewise and lay on his shoulder against the ground.

Bowdrie swung on Doc but the gunman lifted a shaky left hand. “Don’t shoot! I’ve had it.”

“Throw your gun over here. With your left hand.”

The gun landed at his feet. “Where’s Joslin?”

Doc made a feeble gesture with his left hand and, thumbing shells into his right-hand gun, Bowdrie ran into the woods. Suddenly he heard an outburst of firing at the cabin.

Ducking through the woods, he ran up to the fire. Ernie Joslin was standing over the fire. He was unsteady on his feet but he held a gun.

He turned toward Bowdrie, lifting his gun. Bowdrie fired. Joslin stood for an instant, then fell flat, all in one piece. Bowdrie walked over to him and kicked the gun from his hand.

Joslin was staring at him, his face against the ashes and earth. “If I’d known who you was there at first—”

“I knew who you were. I knew you by the cigarette. You threw it away too late. You said you’d never been south of Wichita, but folks around Deadwood don’t smoke cigarettes. It’s a Mexican habit, although it’s workin’ its way north, I expect. Men up Dakota, Montana way smoke cigars. Up north they think cigarettes are kind of ladylike.”

He turned to Starr. “Take off … take off these damned cuffs,” Starr pleaded. “I don’t want to die with ’em on.”

Starr coughed, and when the coughing was over and the cuffs were off, he asked, “You got him?”

“One of us did.”

Folding his coat, he placed it under the head of the dying man. Then he opened Starr’s shirt. There was nothing he could do.

“Got to your pack. Seen where you put my guns. I was figurin’ on a break when Joslin come for me. He killed those men back yonder. Him an’ Doc. I never went for killin’ m’self. Joslin, he was a bad one. I knowed he didn’t like me much, but …”

For a long time he was silent and then he whispered, “You write it. The boy … You say Bill Cross is gone. Dead. Buried. Put … it down.”

Billy Marsden was not in my outfit. The man named Bill Cross was badly wounded and we buried him in the hills. The killing was done by Ernie Joslin and Doc Bentley. This is my dying statement.

Bowdrie wrote it, then read it to him. “Good!” He waited, gathering strength, then he signed his name. “You … you keep that kid … straight.”

Bowdrie put wood on the fire. A glance at Joslin told him the man was gone. He hesitated to leave Starr, but he went back through the patch of woods.

As he came through the woods, he heard a shot. He hesitated, then went on. Tobe Storey lay where he had fallen.

Doc Bentley lay nearby. His right hand was horribly mangled from a bullet. He had taken Tobe’s gun and shot himself.

“Maybe it’s better than hangin’,” Bowdrie said aloud; then, gathering up the weapons, he walked back to Starr.

“Joslin never liked me.” Starr had wiped the blood from his face and had pulled himself into a sitting position. “Figured to have all that bank loot for himself. It’s cached under a flat rock at Granite Spring.”

He lay quite awhile, then said, “That Marsden girl? Sure pretty, wasn’t she?” His voice trailed off and then he said, “Chick? Bury my saddle with me, will you? Might have some mean broncs where I’m goin’. Man feels the need of … of his own … saddle.”

“Want your boots off?”

There was a flicker of a smile on Curly’s lips. “Lived with ’em on. I’ll die with ’em, only don’t cache me with him. Not with Joslin.”

Bowdrie went for the horses and brought them in, and loaded them with the weapons of the fallen men. Suddenly he heard Starr choking and ran to him. He had thrown out a hand and was gripping the horn of his saddle as it lay on the ground.

“They got me, kid! Bowdrie … I’m pullin’ leather!”

Bowdrie dropped beside him and put a hand on Starr’s shoulder. His hand had been there for several minutes before he realized the man was dead.

In the cool of the morning with the sun on his shoulders, Chick Bowdrie headed south and east, carrying in his thoughts the memory of a man who died game, and in his pocket another man’s chance for a new life.