At the Chainlink mailbox, big Tracy Chavis rode out to meet them. Hawk-nosed and big-boned, Chavis was the owner of Chainlink, and years ago had owned a reputation of some significance along the Circuit as a hard man to tangle with. Six accepted Chavis’ reinforcement and then, nine men strong, they thundered up the road toward the cutoff into the Mogul Rim. Shortly thereafter, Larry Keene and Bones Riley of Spur ranch, respectively owner and foreman, added their guns to the party. Six had a glimpse of Bill Dealing’s worried look, and knew what was on the Texan’s mind: the posse was becoming unwieldy. But the three newcomers were all respected fighting men, and when Six looked back along the chain of riders there was not a single weak link in it.
The thunderstorm, rushing up from the west, came at breakneck speed. Six watched it anxiously over his left shoulder while they advanced along the base of the escarpment, eleven men with loaded guns and grim taut faces. The storm would break any time now, washing out whatever tracks might be found. Thus far they had not sought tracks, except to make sure that no one had ridden off the main road into a side trail. They proceeded under the assumption that Madden would make an immediate retreat to his mountain stronghold, and then perhaps divide his gang and scatter them through the wilderness. There was a need for urgency, if the posse meant to catch the gang before it dispersed. But Madden already had a few hours’ start, and as soon as the rain came it would increase the outlaws’ margin of safety. Six chafed and mutely cursed the storm.
It marched forward relentlessly, throwing tall lances of black cloud forward from its crest, by now entirely obscuring the western half of the sky. Forks of lightning made vivid tracks across that black mass; thunder roared. A fine sprinkle began to needle Six’s skin and then, just as they reached the fork in the coach road, the weight of the storm hit. Slashing knives of heavy rain fell upon them.
The posse halted to don slickers and ponchos. The rain came down in heavy sheets, obscuring vision, bringing darkness upon the world. As soon as Six had his head poked through the slicker’s center hole, he lifted the reins as if to go on, but a thought restrained him. He said, “Hold on a minute. I just thought of something.”
“What is it?” Bill Dealing said.
Six lifted an arm, pointing toward the Mogul and the Yellows. “If I were Madden, I’d expect the posse to chase me up there.”
“Well, I guess so. What about it?”
“Well,” Six observed, “I wouldn’t tend to go where I expected to be chased.”
Dealing pulled down the reins, stopping his horse’s impatient fidgeting. “I see what you mean.”
“A smart man, willing to take a risk, might turn west into the desert and try to get across it. Meantime the posse would waste so much time prowling around in the mountains, he’d have time to get scot free. I wired Tucson and Bisbee, but by the time they get help to the Smoke, Madden would be long gone.”
The others, clustered round, took this in and worried it around. Six pondered it; the idea had suddenly come to him, and now he had to stand off to look at it.
He couldn’t afford to chance that Madden had actually gone into the desert. If he took the posse that way, and Madden was really in the Yellows, it would give Madden’s crew time to split up and get hundreds of miles behind them. The frustrating thing was, with the rain washing out sign, it would be impossible to test either possibility without committing himself, unless—
Finally he said, “I see only one way out, and it’s a tight chance.”
Dealing’s mind had evidently been working the same way, “Divide,” he said.
“Yes. It will mean we’re outnumbered, no matter where we find Madden.”
“Not badly,” Dealing said. “All told, there were nine of them, including one badly wounded man.”
Maybe ten, was Six’s dismal thought. Maybe Sarasen’s with them. It was a fear he dared not communicate to the others. He said, “If we split up we’ll still have five or six men in each group, against Madden’s eight.”
When he looked back through the driving rain at the vaguely visible faces of his men, he knew none of them lacked pluck. Madden had issued his challenge, and to a man the members of this posse would answer it willingly. None of them would think of turning back. Sure of that, he divided the posse, taking with himself four men: rancher Larry Keene, Spur foreman Bones Riley, and two sharp-eyed Flying V cowhands whom he knew were good fighters. The other six, led by Bill Dealing and big Tracy Chavis, would thread the mountains to Madden’s stronghold. Six chose the desert trail on the strength of his hunch.
He issued orders accordingly, and the posse was about to divide, when a cowboy at the edge of the group let his call sing out: “Hey, look here!”
Six swung that way, pushed through the crowd, and saw what had attracted the cowboy’s attention. It was a fresh, oblong hump of earth.
“Fresh grave,” Bones Riley murmured, at his shoulder. Quickly, Six dismounted two men and told them to dig. It was not long before their prodding sticks uncovered the dead, upturned face of Luke Holliday, the younger of the two brothers, who last night had drawn his gun against the Mexican poker players.
Six let air whistle out through his teeth. “I was hoping that wouldn’t happen,” he said. “If he’d stayed alive, it would have slowed them down.”
“Not Madden,” Dealing said. “Probably it was the brother who dug this grave. I’d guess the rest of the bunch left him behind. He’s probably not far ahead of us, riding alone, trying to catch up with the others.”
It was a shrewd guess, and Six had to agree with it. The two cowboys pushed dirt back into the grave and mounted up in the downpour. Six nodded to Bill Dealing, and the lean redheaded Texan led his party off to the right, into the Yellows. Six wasted no time watching them go. His saddlebags filled with provisions from the packhorse, he lifted his arm and led his four men westward, into the muddy flats of the desert.
In the Southwest it was rare for a thunderstorm to last more than a few hours before moving on, wind-driven from the west or southwest. It was not yet three in the afternoon when the rain quit and, without slowing their trotting horses, the five horsemen slipped out of their oilskins, folded them and tied them across their saddles. By four o’clock the desert hardpan was already crinkling and cracking under the hard slap of the sun. To the east, the full force of the storm battered against the peaks, and Six knew that Dealing’s party would be running into hard going up there.
It was almost fifty miles across the sand flats to the Arrowheads, and the valley of the Smoke River. In summer heat, a rider could not push his horse fast on the desert, or it would give out; on horseback a man had to count on at least an eighteen hour trek. With a sudden rain just past, the desert would be full of treacherous cutbanks where rushing flash-floods had undermined the earth. It was necessary to watch every step.
On the assumption that, if Madden had chosen the desert crossing, he would head straight west across the bottleneck to Tilghley’s Ford on the Smoke, Six led his men by the sun. As soon as the rain had stopped, he had spread them out in a fan almost a mile wide, on the thin chance that they might pick up tracks. There was no chance of individual posse members being ambushed unawares; here in the middle of the desert the brush-cover was scanty and low, and the earth was pancake-flat, offering no concealment. That, in part, was what made it such a daring maneuver, for a man on the run to cut across the desert: if caught, he had nowhere to hide.
As the hands of his pocket-watch drew near five o’clock, Six had the sinking feeling that they must have guessed wrong, that the outlaws had, after all, gone back into the Yellows. But it would be useless to turn back now. He looked at the riders thrown out on either flank. In the far distance, half a mile to his left, bobbed fat Bones Riley. Then, midway between them was the cowboy Elias. To his immediate right rode the other Flying V cowhand, Manuel Redondo; and on the far right, eyes sweeping the ground diligently, was the tall silhouette of Larry Keene. Good men, all of them; had the circumstances been different Six would have enjoyed their company.
Off to his left, Bones Riley suddenly flung up his arm and waved his hat. Riley did not call out, for sounds carried great distances in the desert; but everyone recognized his signal and turned to run toward him.
When Six came up, Riley was sitting fat-hipped in the saddle, and nodded toward the ground.
“Fresh tracks,” Six murmured. “Put there since the rain stopped—two hours at most. One horse only.”
Riley nodded. The others came up, and Six pointed along the line of distinct horseshoe marks. It led straight west. He said, “Most likely that will be Chris Holliday. He got left behind to bury Luke, and then his horse is probably pretty jaded from carrying double. With any luck, he’ll lead us right to the rest of them. He’ll want a cut of that bank loot, even if he wasn’t in on the holdup.” Maybe it was Holliday; maybe it was Sarasen.
“Sure,” said Bones Riley, his voice a deep growl. “But what if Madden don’t see it that way? I don’t picture Madden sittin’ around waiting for Chris Holliday to catch up.”
It was true enough, Six supposed; nonetheless he resolved that they would follow the tracks, as the best means of ascertaining Madden’s direction of travel. He waved his posse forward and set out over the tracks at a canter.
As the afternoon waned, he felt himself spurred by a grim excited anticipation; the single set of tracks dotting westward convinced him that he had been wise in trusting his own judgment, that Madden was ahead of them.
Behind, the storm climbed the Yellows; ahead, the sun descended, a red globe spreading vivid arrows of crimson-yellow cloud along the jagged horizon of the Arrowheads. At seven, with the sun just above the mountains and sinking fast, Six was sure they had gained considerably on the worn-out horse that had left the trail of slurred tracks. Was it Sarasen’s buckskin or Holliday’s stolen horse? Increasingly they passed stretches where the tracks showed that the rider had been forced to get down and lead the horse, to rest the animal. Then, along the trail, they found a litter of dead weight that yonder rider must have discarded from his saddle: blanket-roll, coiled rope, saddlebags full of the accumulated random junk of a cowboy’s carefree nomadic existence.
Bones Riley and Larry Keene inspected the loot; Riley said, “That belongs to one of our men,” and tied the stuff across his own saddle.
A measure of relief passed through Six’s heart: this was a stolen horse they followed—Holliday’s. It was Chris Holliday’s trail, not Sarasen’s.
Twilight, then dark. The previous rain had washed the air clean to a purity, and the stars shone through with brittle clarity; there was plenty of light for tracking on the pale, flat surface of the plain. A spindle tracery of yucca and greasewood and catclaw spotted the land. Not more than an hour after dark, Manuel Redondo’s sharp straining eyes picked up the bobbing silhouette of a moving figure ahead of them.
Shortly the moon rose, and with that aid they were sure their quarry was in sight. Six halted the group and spoke in low tones, “No telling if he’s spotted us yet. But in any case we can’t afford to slow down to his pace, just to keep behind him. Madden’s still got too long a lead. We’ll have to pick Holliday up and keep going. Don’t run your horses if you can help it. Spread out and box him.”
They split away, Riley and Elias moving off to the left, Keene and Redondo to the right. Six kept his horse straight ahead at an easy gait until he felt the others had had time to advance on the flanks; then he kicked the horse up to a lope, disregarding the racket he made, knowing that in this moonlight there was no way to surprise Holliday on the open desert.
Holliday soon recognized pursuit. With sudden energy he leaned forward and lashed the tired horse, urging it into an effort of speed. Clods of dried mud threw up behind the running hoofs.
Bones Riley shouted lustily across the dark. Six gigged his own horse to a gallop, but restrained it from running full-out; Holliday was not the essential target of this chase, and it would be a bad mistake to windbreak his horse on a too-quick dash.
Along the sides he saw the running shapes of his partners, keeping pace and preventing Holliday from turning to either side. Holliday saw them at the same time. Six saw him savagely spurring and beating his horse, but the jaded animal had taken too much punishment; slogging forward through the treacherous desert, it tripped over something and spilled its rider to the ground.
Holliday scrambled to his feet and ran back to the horse. He jerked a rifle from the scabbard and stood a moment, legs spread wide, looking down at the beast; then, coolly, he put a bullet in its head. The horse flopped back and Holliday dropped behind it. Six thought, Must have broken a leg, but there was no time for idle considerations; Holliday’s rifle was laid across the saddle and Six reined in, stopped, and considered the position.
He was about four hundred yards away from Holliday. Assuming that Holliday’s rifle was the standard .44-40 Winchester, its bullets would not carry this far with any accuracy; thus if Six stayed put, he was relatively safe. On the other hand, his own .45-90 could easily shoot across that distance. So thinking, he dismounted with cold deliberation and calmed the horse, and laid his big Sharps across the saddle to steady it. But the horse was winded and its breathing disturbed his aim; he walked away from it and squatted down, bracing both elbows between his knees to aim.
Holliday must have seen him take up position; a quick flurry of shots came from Holliday’s downed horse, muzzle flaming in the night. But none of the bullets came anywhere near Six. He was too far away to talk to Holliday, but he knew that it might serve the same purpose to frighten the man; he took careful aim and squeezed off a shot, aimed at the head of the dead horse. He could not see if he hit the target, and Holliday made no response; then, faint in the distance to the left, Six heard the lifting bellow of Bones Riley’s strong shouting:
“Give it up, Holliday. You’re outnumbered and outranged. You haven’t got a prayer.”
Settling another cartridge in the Sharps’ chamber, Six took aim and waited. After a moment he saw Holliday rise.
On his feet, the big tough made a show of tossing his rifle and two revolvers away. Then he stood still, hands at his sides. Sighing with small satisfaction, Six went back to his horse, climbed up, sheathed the rifle, and rode forward.
He could see the others converging toward Holliday from either side. Bones Riley, a great mound on his horse, rode up close by, and the two of them advanced together. Near the dismounted outlaw, Six stopped and stepped down to go forward, bringing out his handcuffs.
He was abruptly chilled by the vengeful gleam in Holliday’s glance. He saw the derringer in the outlaw’s big fist and knew he didn’t have time to draw, knew it with a fateful certainty; then a gun roared over Six’s shoulder and Holliday, with an expression of vast surprise, tumbled over with a dark blotch on his forehead.
Bones Riley, still asaddle, holstered his warm gun and said bluntly, “Stupid fool.”
Six felt himself trembling. He swallowed and said, “I’m obliged. Damn well obliged, Bones.”
“De nada,” Riley murmured, and added with dismal humor, “At least it saves us the trouble of figuring out what to do with him.”
Six looked at the dead outlaw and clenched both fists tight, to keep them from shaking; it had been close, awfully close. He said hoarsely, “We’ll have to bury him.”
“That’ll give us time to rest the horses,” Riley said, stepping down. “Man, I’m too fat. The cross I carry.”
Six looked at him. The others were dismounting; there was a creaking of saddles and the measured heavy breathing of the horses. Six said quietly, “Bones, I don’t believe you’re anywhere near as cold-blooded as you like to let on.”
Riley displayed the shadow of a smile. “I wouldn’t spread it around,” he said, and went to kneel by Chris Holliday.
Satisfied, he stood and came back, his round face glum, drawing his gun to replace the spent cartridge. Six stood watching Elias and Redondo begin to dig. There was only one short-handled shovel among them; Elias was pick axing the ground with a massive knife. “Deep enough to keep the coyotes off him,” Six intoned to the two cowboys. Then, sickened by the sight of death and the unwilling anticipation of more violence to come, he turned away from the macabre scene and spent the next ten minutes by himself in the desert, morosely considering the mountains to the west. Had Sarasen gone that way? Would they find Madden at the ford, or would it turn into a long relentless chase across the Southwest? In the end, telegraph and railroad would be Madden’s downfall, but Six felt personal responsibility in the matter; he wanted it done and done quickly.
In a short time the cowboys were climbing out of the two-foot trench. Six went to them; he and Riley lifted the inert, heavy mass of Holliday’s body into the grave; Redondo spoke a few soft liquid Spanish words over him, and then Elias moved forward to fill in the shallow grave, crossing himself.
Bones Riley and Larry Keene stood by Six, looking westward toward the Arrowheads. Riley was an immense man, his eyes almost hidden by the folds of his cheeks; Keene was slim, had a horseman’s agility and a sharp mind. Years ago both of them had played important roles in a range-war at Spanish Flat; the fact they had survived it was testimony to their fighting ability.
Six said, “It’s my feeling that Madden will stop to sleep and stock up at Tilghley’s Ford, on the Smoke. That might give us the margin of time we need.” He did not add one worry that had been increasingly plaguing him: as much as his instincts told him to like Ben Sarasen, he could not rationally avoid suspecting the gunfighter, after all that had happened. It would not be beyond possibility for Sarasen to join Madden, and together, with Madden’s cutthroat gang backing them up, they would make an unbeatable combination—especially for Six’s reduced party.
He said nothing of this, however. He only added, “They’re seven, were five. I count on a couple of those toughs to break if things get too rough. But don’t underestimate them. Madden’s as tough as they come. Drake Ivy’s too stupid to scare. Faro Price never backed off from a fight, and neither did the Bolton boys. I look for a tough fight. Now, the way I see it, they’re several hours ahead of us; they probably didn’t hear all this shooting. They probably think we’re all chasing our tails around back in the Yellows. They’ll figure they’ve got a breathing space. There’s no telegraph within a day’s ride of Tilghley’s Ford, so I assume they’ll feel safe enough there until about noon. After that they’ll most likely divide the loot and split up the gang. I want to catch them before that.”
Bones Riley said idly, “How much did they get out of the bank, anyway?”
“Not as much as they expected,” Six said. “The cashier was over at the doctor’s, and he was the only one with the safe combination except George Cushing, and Cushing’s in Denver. All Madden got was what was in the till—no more than a couple of thousand dollars. Pretty slim pickings for a hard day’s run.”