The Vengeance Seeker 2 Page 12

  Gibson nodded, then turned and faced the spectators.

  “With Wolf Caulder in town, I was expecting some kind of trouble,” Gibson began, his voice small, so small that people had to lean forward in their seats to catch every word. “So I kept an eye on him. I didn’t like the idea of him maybe coming into my place and demanding I sell to him.”

  “I’ll bet you didn’t,” said someone in back.

  There was some laughter at that. Waterman hastily grabbed his gavel and rapped for order. As he was doing this, Ben leaned forward and tapped the bailiff who was guarding Wolf on the shoulder—the one away from Wolf. The man turned. Wolf saw the movement and heard Ben asking him why he couldn’t talk to his friend, Wolf Caulder, if he wanted to. As the bailiff snorted angrily and tried to reply, Wolf felt the boy’s jackknife, fully opened, slide down the wooden back of his seat and come to rest between his bound wrists and the chair back.

  Ben sat back, thoroughly chastised by the bailiff and Wolf looked back at Gibson. The man had resumed testifying.

  “ ... and I thought I heard angry voices down the end of the alley—one of them Slade’s and the other Wolf’s. So ... I walked into the alley very carefully.”

  “I can believe that, George!” cried a merry voice from somewhere behind Wolf.

  The judge ignored this outburst. “Go on, go on, George. What did you see?”

  “I saw the two of them standing by the wagon. Slade was insisting that Helen could not give Double B any more credit and Caulder was saying that she had promised the Double B a line of credit up to five hundred. But Slade denied it.” Gibson took out a large white handkerchief and mopped his brow. His voice had been getting softer with every word. He looked at the judge. “Could I have a glass of water please, Judge?”

  “Sam!” cried the judge, and a little fellow sitting at the other end of the front row jumped to his feet and disappeared into a back room. While Sam hustled up the water, a restlessness fell over the spectators and they began talking quietly to each other. It was a busy, pleasant buzz. Everyone seemed to be having a fine time.

  On his second try Wolf managed to catch the knife’s blade between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. He leaned back then, gazing casually up at the ceiling, while he began slicing through the rawhide.

  Sam brought out a large pitcher of water and two glasses. He filled both glasses, handed one to the judge and the other to Gibson. Then he placed the pitcher down on the table next to the judge and scurried back to his seat.

  Gibson sipped the water and cleared his throat. “They really began to argue then—and before I could do anything to stop it, Caulder drew his gun and fired at Hamner.”

  “Three times. Is that right, George?”

  “Yes, Judge.”

  “And Slade was unarmed?”

  “He was unarmed.” Gibson took another swallow from the glass in his hand. The glass shook a little.

  “That’s all, George. Thank you. You may step down.” Gibson seemed enormously relieved his testimony was done, almost as if he had been expecting lightning to strike him through the Grange ceiling. He got up from the witness chair and started back toward his earlier seat, cutting in front of the table. As he passed between Wolf and the table, Wolf sprang to his feet, wrapped his left forearm around the smaller man’s neck, and with his right hand lifted Gibson’s .45 from its holster and cocked it, resting its muzzle against Gibson’s right temple. As soon as Gibson felt the touch of the cold metal, he stopped struggling.

  Wolf had been careful to keep Gibson between himself and the kid, and he moved with such swift, supple precision that only as he lifted the .45’s muzzle to Gibson’s temple had the kid begun his move. He was half out of his seat when Wolf barked:

  “Sit down, Kid, or I’ll blow that funny looking hat off your head!”

  Slowly, the kid sat back down.

  “And put your hands where I can see them!”

  The kid lifted both hands out of his pockets and folded them in his lap. “You’ll never get out of here alive,” he said.

  Wolf turned Gibson so that the man was between him and most of the spectators, including the bailiff that had been sitting beside him. Only the judge was behind him, to his left. But the judge was not armed.

  The hall was silent. Women sat with their hands frozen over their mouths, their eyes wide, unblinking, waiting. The men sat leaning forward, their hands on the back of the seat in front of them, getting ready to move—either down behind the seat or in the other direction out of the place. In that split second of silence before Wolf spoke again, the shrill voices of some boys playing outside in the street came clearly to everyone in the hall.

  “All right, Gibson,” Wolf barked. “You’ve testified. Now let’s hear the truth!”

  “I ... I told it!” the man protested.

  Wolf tightened his forearm against the man’s Adam’s apple.

  “The truth, damn you!”

  Pike stood up then. “You better do as he says, Gibson,” he said. “Caulder ain’t got much to lose at this point. He’d just as soon hang for killing you as hang for nothing.”

  “All right!” Gibson gasped. “All right! Let me breathe! I’ll tell you!”

  The kid jumped up. “Shut up, Gibson,” he said, his voice chilling with the intensity of its threat. “You’ve already given your testimony.” He turned to Judge Waterman. “Ain’t that right, Judge?”

  The man, his stringy face ashen, nodded vigorously.

  “Go ahead, Gibson,” Wolf told him, “and speak up. I want everyone to hear what happened in that alley.”

  “He did it!” Gibson cried, flinging up his arm and pointing at the kid. “He shot Slade! He took Caulder’s gun and—”

  Before he could finish, the kid’s hands plunged into his pockets. Wolf caught the movement and flung Gibson to one side, but the table caught the man and kept him still partially between Wolf and the kid. The kid did not wait for a clear shot at Wolf as both Smith & Wessons came out belching flame.

  One slug caught Gibson high in the chest and flung him back against Wolf, causing Wolf’s return fire to go wild. The kid’s second bullet caught Gibson low, and he doubled over. Though this gave Wolf a chance at his first clear shot, by the time he stepped away from Gibson’s writhing body on the floor at his feet, the kid was racing down the aisle, both guns in his hands.

  Wolf did not fire after him. The chance of hitting someone else was too great. What looked like one of Bob Steele’s men jumped out of an aisle seat and tried to grab the kid, but with a single vicious swipe with his gun, the kid caught the puncher on the side of the head and floored him. By that time Snake Bar men, their irons out, held the doorway clear for the kid; no one tried to stop him, and a second or two later the kid was out of the hall, clambering down the outside steps, the rest of the Snake Bar contingent on his heels.

  As the sound of the Snake Bar’s horses clattering out of town filled the air a moment later, women and children, escorted by their husbands, fled the place while the rest turned their attention to the fallen Gibson.

  There was a general movement toward him as Wolf dropped to one knee beside the wounded merchant. Gibson’s silk shirt and red velvet vest were matted already from the slowly spreading stain that surged from his chest wound. But it was the second wound, lower down in the man’s abdomen that had done the most damage. Gibson was still conscious, a thin trickle of blood emerging from the right corner of his mouth, his face the color of an old newspaper. Both of his small hands were clutching at the hole in his gut, while coils of gray, blood-flecked intestine surged through them with each breath the man took.

  “He’s gut shot,” someone leaning over said, his voice hushed at the thought of it.

  Wolf leaned close to the man. “There’s no gun on you now, Gibson,” he said. “What happened in the alley? Why did they want to kill Slade?”

  Gibson turned his eyes on Wolf. “Snake Bar ... Slade turned on Snake Bar ... thrown in with Double B ... figured f
rame you ... stop Double B ...”

  He began to cough then and with each spasm, more of the man’s intestines snaked out from under his clutching hands.

  “Jesus ...!” Gibson whispered, almost in wonder. “It hurts ... hurts like hell!”

  Just then the doctor pushed his way through the ring of onlookers. Wolf stood up and stepped back out of the man’s way. Bob Steele was beside him by that time and he shook his head as the doctor began issuing orders for assistance in getting Gibson from the hall to a place where he could work on Gibson.

  Taking him by the arm, Bob pulled Wolf away from the crowd around Gibson and over toward the judge, who was at the moment surrounded by angry citizens. More than a few, it appeared, were demanding to know what he had known about the attempt to frame Wolf.

  “… and that’s the truth, Cal,” Waterman was saying to one irate fellow, a thin balding man who had been wagging a finger under his nose. “So help me. I had no idea Snake Bar would try—”

  He stopped when he saw Joshua Blackmann, his young face grim and filled with suppressed anger, approaching them. He had not ridden out of town with the rest of the Snake Bar riders, it seemed, and was now striding angrily toward them down the aisle.

  Josh ignored the angry muttering of many of those watching as he walked through their sullen ranks to Wolf’s side. “I just wanted to know,” he said to Wolf. “Gibson wasn’t just talking to save himself from you, was he?”

  Wolf shook his head. “I just spoke to him. He’s a pretty sick man. He wasn’t interested in telling any more lies, Josh.”

  Joshua frowned. “How bad is he?”

  “Gut shot,” said Steele harshly, as if he was holding Joshua personally responsible.

  Joshua took a deep breath. “I’m sorry ... sorry about Gibson ... about a lot of things.” He looked at Wolf then. “Anyway, I’m glad, Caulder—that you didn’t have anything to do with Slade’s death, I mean.”

  Joshua turned to go.

  “Where you going now, Josh?” Wolf asked.

  “Back to Snake Bar. I’d like to know whose idea all this was.”

  As he left them, Bob looked at Wolf. “You believe that kid didn’t know what his old man was pulling?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Believe what you want, Steele. That’s your problem, not mine.”

  Steele was not disturbed by the anger in Wolf’s response. He just shrugged and turned back to Judge Waterman.

  “Judge!” he called to him, pushing through the ring of citizens hemming the man in. “I want you to appoint this man here Willow Bend’s new sheriff!”

  “You mean Wolf Caulder?”

  “That’s who I mean, all right!”

  The Grange Hall still contained a sizable number of people, though most of the women had long since fled. As news of what Bob Steele was proposing to the judge swept around the hall, the small, excited groups of men going over the afternoon’s events broke up and soon there was a large audience around the judge and Bob Steele.

  “I have no authority,” protested the judge.

  “Sure you have. We’re giving it to you. Right here and now.”

  “But the town council has to vote—”

  “The leader of the town council is behind us, a bullet in his gut. What you need now is action, not talk.”

  Those crowded around nodded their agreement to that, and Steele’s riders did more than nod their heads. Olsen’s riders were also enthusiastic over the idea. But it was precisely their approval which appeared to put off the townspeople crowded close about the judge.

  “Now hold it just a minute there,” said one of the townsmen, a large fellow who ran the only blacksmith shop. “We don’t want no more hired guns for sheriff in this here town.”

  “You want another Snake Bar gunslinger?” Steele demanded.

  “What’s the difference?” another fellow piped up. “A Snake Bar hired gun or a Double B hired gun?”

  Steele turned to the judge then. “Well, Judge. What’s your decision?”

  “We’ll choose our own sheriff. We won’t be dictated to by you and the rest of your crowd.”

  That statement met with some pleased nods from those nearest the judge, all except Pike Hanson, who had crowded close to the judge after returning from taking the women and Ben out to the buckboard.

  “Seems to me, Judge,” Pike snorted contemptuously, “that it all depends on who does the dictating. You’ve been taking orders from Snake Bar for years.”

  “Is that your final answer, Judge?” Steele demanded.

  The judge looked swiftly around him at those he recognized as allies. Their quick nods gave him all the courage he needed. “It is, Mr. Steele. We’ve had our fill of gunslinging sheriffs in Willow Bend.”

  “Then you’ll have vigilante law then.”

  “Now, just you see here! You—”

  “Let’s go, Wolf,” Steele said, turning away from the judge, his riders and those of the other small ranchers following.

  Pike moved up beside Wolf. There was a grin on his face. “Ben wants to know if you have his jackknife.”

  Wolf smiled and took it from his pocket and handed it to Pike. He had picked the jackknife up off the chair before dropping to Gibson’s side.

  “You sure called it, Wolf,” said Pike. “We gave Snake Bar enough rope—and now McCracken, Olsen and the others have their hearts into it.” he grinned. “They sure as hell do!”

  “Yes,” Wolf replied, “and so does Blackmann don’t forget. This is war, Pike—range war. And it’s only just begun.”

  As Wolf stepped out onto the Grange Hall porch a moment later with Pike and Steele, he saw four men carrying Gibson across the street toward the barber shop on a makeshift stretcher. The barber served as the town’s mortician.

  Steele looked at Wolf. “Wasn’t your fault, Wolf. Gibson got mixed up with the wrong crowd.”

  Wolf nodded. He didn’t need Steele to tell him that. But he wasn’t thinking of Gibson now. He was thinking of Joshua. Josh was with the same wrong crowd—and he was beginning to realize just how wrong they were. The young man had been pretty pent up when he left.

  But now would be a poor time for him to cross his father.

  Eleven

  As the kid left Blackmann’s office later that same afternoon, Lassiter, who had been following the kid out, suddenly stopped and swung around to face Blackmann.

  Blackmann looked at Lassiter with a slight frown. As the door closed solidly behind the kid, he said, “Well, Lassiter, you’ve got your orders. What are you waiting for?”

  Lassiter was in no hurry to reply. He was girding himself for the storm he was about to precipitate—a storm that had been a long time coming. What Blackmann had just told the kid a moment before made it pretty damn clear that Blackmann was easing him out. Pretty soon it would be the kid ramrodding Snake Bar—if, that is, there was anything left of the spread by the time the kid got through.

  “Well, damn it, Lassiter! What is it?”

  “I don’t like it. I don’t like you giving the kid the biggest force and sending him after Steele. Me you give the worst of the lot and send me after that sodbuster, Jenks. You’re cutting me down in front of the men. You’re doing it on purpose, John.”

  “You’re my ramrod, Lassiter,” Blackmann said quietly. “But I run Snake Bar. You’ll do as I say—or get out.”

  Lassiter smiled. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you. But you can’t get rid of me that easy, John.”

  “And why can’t I?”

  “Because I know where the bodies are buried, that’s why.”

  “And where might that be, Lassiter?”

  “One of them is out back of the bunkhouse.”

  “That’s right, Lassiter. But how would you know that if you hadn’t helped me plant the son of a bitch yourself?”

  “Goddamn it, John, it was you pulled the trigger. It was you murdered him.”

  “Executed, you mean. Tha
t mealy-mouthed piece of offal coupling with my wife got what he deserved!”

  “And Kathy. Don’t forget her. I saw what you done to her.”

  “You want to compare notes do you, Lassiter? What about that girl in Kansas City? The girls in that place were all set to cut off your manhood for that one. And they should have. How was it you killed her now? A whiskey bottle over the head?”

  Lassiter was stunned. That was more than fifteen years before. He had never told anyone. “How did you know that, John? Damn you! How did you know that?”

  “The cowpoke who bailed you out of that one used to work for us, Lassiter. Not for long. But while he was here he told me all about it. You didn’t recognize him. You get pretty drunk in cat houses, seems like.”

  “All right. So you got one on me. But I was just a kid and I’d had too much to drink. What was your excuse? Kathy hadn’t done a damn thing. Neither had that puncher.”

  “You know that for a fact, do you, Lassiter?” Blackmann’s voice was low, menacing.

  “All I know is you shouldn’t have done that to her,” Lassiter finished lamely. He was aware suddenly that he was about to go too far—if he hadn’t already.

  “Is it all out now, Lassiter?”

  Lassiter took a deep breath. “Look, John, the kid murdered Slade. In cold blood. And he just killed Gibson in front of half the town. How can you possibly keep him on?”

  “Because he’s a willing tool—a necessary tool. He’ll do my bidding without question. And for that I’ll keep him on.”

  “Josh won’t stand for it, John. He’s not that kind. He ain’t like us.”

  “No. But he will be. The kid’ll be a better one for him to follow than you, Lassiter. You’ve grown fat here, lazy. Fit only to run errands. You felt you had an easy berth here, that you knew too much about me for me to make a move against you.”

  Lassiter felt his face redden as the truth of what Blackmann said sank in like a barb.

  Blackmann smiled. “You were wrong, Lassiter. We’ve been caught in the same traces for too long. It’s time we broke free.”