How The West Was Won Part 18

They were disappointed, as he knew they would be, for as in most western towns the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick-maker were ex-cowhands, Indian fighters, or Civil War veterans, always aching to get back in the saddle again. Rawlings circled out of the back door, ducked between two buildings, and got into the side door of an empty store building. From there he went to the roof. The building had been among the first to go up when the town was built and when Comanche raids were frequent. The roof had a three-foot parapet all the way around it, with loopholes every few feet. Several of those loopholes overlooked the front of the saloon, and Rawlings had long since observed that the entire first and second floors were covered from them. Zeb Rawlings had taken along a piece of stovepipe with one end pushed together to make a mouthpiece. Using it as a megaphone, he called out, "All right, Gant! Five minutes!"

The man stationed opposite the marshal's office dropped his cigarette and looked around quickly. Nervous because of the unexpected force that had gathered with shotguns and rifles, he was now really alarmed. Yet look where he might, he could see nothing. Within the saloon, Gant and two bartenders and three dealers were all armed and waiting, prepared for trouble. The five minutes dragged.

It ended with the sudden boom of a Spencer .56 buffalo gun. Zeb had discarded his Winchester for the moment because of the psychological effect of that cannon boom from the .56.

His first shot he put into the awning post against which the watching gunman was leaning. The heavy slug struck with tremendous force, shattering the post and showering the gunman with splinters.

Instantly, Rawlings turned and, shooting through another hole, smashed the lantern above the other watcher, showering him with gla.s.s and coal oil. Both men dove for shelter, and Rawlings speeded one on his way with another boom from the Spencer, the slug smas.h.i.+ng the wall just a jump ahead of him. Turning his gun on the saloon, where the waiting men had yet to locate him, Rawlings began a searching fire. His first shot smashed the roulette wheel which Gant had imported at great cost; a second ripped into the bar where someone might be hiding; and a third smashed the great mirror behind the bar. The last shot clipped the window sill to the right of the door. With seven more sh.e.l.ls laid out, he reloaded quickly. Coolly and methodically he proceeded to rip the saloon from one end to the other with heavy .56 caliber slugs. He smashed bottles on the back bar, shot into every possible place of concealment.

When he had finished, he reloaded again, and again riddled the saloon from floor to ceiling, from wall to wall.

A shot answered him from the second floor, but he was not worried. He was moving from loophole to loophole and the adobe walls around him would turn anything but a cannon sh.e.l.l.

On the other hand, the flimsy walls of the rooms over the saloon would not stop any kind of a slug. A .44 or .45 would penetrate seven to nine inches of pine, and his .56 would do much better. At this range of less than sixty feet, one of those slugs would go through everything, the full length of the building unless it brought up against a timber.

Choosing all the likely spots where a man might take shelter and still see to fire back, Rawlings proceeded to search the place with rifle-fire. He had no desire to shoot anyone, but simply to demonstrate that he meant what he said. And n.o.body was killed; but four of the men inside the saloon suffered minor wounds, and all were ready to leave town. Gant went, vowing to return. Two months later, with two hired gunmen, he did return, and they timed it right to catch Zeb Rawlings emerging from the IXL Restaurant. They caught him in the door, and the first bullet turned him around, flattening him against the wall. It was that bullet that saved his life, for it was followed by the blast of a double-barreled shotgun that tore a hole in the door as large as a man's head. Though Rawlings was. .h.i.t, he was not out of action. He opened fire from the doorway, then managed to get out on the street. His first shot killed a horse, his second burned one of the hired gunmen. In the shooting that followed, both the gunmen were killed, and a bullet struck Gant in the belly, only to be deflected by a rectangular bra.s.s buckle on his belt. The buckle was large and heavy, and it saved his life. A second bullet ripped along his ribs within inches of his heart, and Gant, thoroughly frightened, fled town. It was weeks before the bruise behind that buckle disappeared, but the scar on Charlie Gant's consciousness lasted much longer.

The following year, after Rawlings had recovered from the four wounds he had incurred in the gun battle, he was appointed a deputy United States marshal, operating in the Indian Territory.

It had been a good job. The Territory was filled with outlaws, a few of them protected by renegade Indians, but most of them objected to and disliked by the Indians. The Indians of the eastern Territory were mostly of the Five Civilized Tribesa"the Cherokees, Choctaws, Chickasaws, Creeks, and Seminoles. Most of them lived like white men. A good many had education, a good many were veterans of the war, and others had ancestors who had fought with or against Jackson. Zeb Rawlings liked them, and he liked the Osages. He enjoyed his job. A good tracker, and accustomed to long hours in the saddle, he earned the respect even of the outlaws he pursued and brought to justice. It was one of these who gave him the warning. Del Meggeson was a horse-thief, and a good one. He had, in the course of an eventful life, held up a few stages, rustled a few cows, fought Indians, and worked as a teamster on a freight line. He was wanted for a shooting on Cabin Creek, and Zeb Rawlings went in and got him.

Del saw the glint of light on the star, and he went for his gun. Zeb Rawlings held his fire. "No!" He spoke sharply, the command ringing in the hollow by the river. "Del, I've got the drop!"

Del Meggeson, no man's fool, froze his hand where it was. He was fair game, and knew it. He relaxed slowly. "I can't see you," he said conversationally, "and I never heard your voice before, but only one man in this part of the country would give me a break like that. You have to be Zeb Rawlings." "Unbuckle your gun belt, Del, and let it fall." With extreme care, Meggeson did as advised. He knew he had had the break of a lifetime. "Come up to the fire," he said. "Coffee's on, and if you've been trailin' me, you've had a long ride."

Zeb bolstered his gun, and Del saw the gesture and smiled. He liked a nervy man, and he also liked one who gave him the benefit of the doubt. Zeb collected the guns and put them beside him. "All I've got to do is frisk you, but I'll take your word. Are you packing another gun?" Del hesitated, then he chuckled. "You do make it hard on a man, Marshal." With his thumb and forefinger he drew a derringer from behind his belt and tossed it across the fire.

They had sat over the fire for hours, yarning about the West, exchanging stories of the country. It was over coffee the following morning that Del offered his warning.

"Zeb," he said suddenly, "I'm going to give you a little tip. Charlie Gant's in the Territory, and he's priming Floyd for you." The story came out on the long ride east into Arkansas. The Gant brothers, after working with various bands of outlaws, had finally made a tie-up with Cad Pickett and his outfit. Charlie was the brains of the outfit, along with Cad and Floyd, but the latter had built himself a name in Texas and in the Nation. Floyd was on several wanted posters and was reputed to have killed eleven men, seven of whom could be identified.

"Floyd's fast, Zeb. He's almighty fast, and Charlie, he's been building Floyd up for a killing. Charlie will never be happy until you're dead." "Thanks."

The showdown came sooner than he expected.

When Zeb Rawlings rode up to the store at Boggy Depot that fine sunny morning, he was not thinking of the Gants. His mission was a simple onea"to find and arrest a bad Indian named Sanders who was wanted for murder. Zeb had stopped at Fort Was.h.i.+ta and there he was advised that he would find his man at Boggy Depot. An unknown half-breed volunteered the information. The store was a long, low building with a shake roof, and an awning that provided shade from the sun. One man, apparently asleep, dozed in a chair near the door. There were no horses tied at the hitch rail. Pus.h.i.+ng open the door, Zeb stepped inside, and the instant he walked in he knew he was in trouble. The storekeeper, a stranger to him, stood behind the counter, his face white and strained.

Zeb's eyes, turning to the left, saw Floyd Gant standing at the small bar in the corner. One elbow rested on the bar, but the right hand, only inches above the gun b.u.t.t, held a gla.s.s of whiskey. Another man whom Zeb immediately identified as Cad Pickett from pictures he had seen on reward posters, was at the bar with Floyd.

From the far end of the room, near the side door, Charlie Gant spoke out. "We've been waiting for you, Rawlings, and we've waited long enough." Zeb did not stop, but walked on over to the bar, ignoring Charlie. "h.e.l.lo, Floyd," he said, "I hear you've been busy lately." Floyd Gant was not a tall man, but he was broad and powerful. His chest was deep, and his shoulders were wide and thick. The column of his muscular neck supported a square, blocky head covered with thick black curls. "You huntin' me?" Floyd asked.

"No. As a matter of fact, I was tipped there was an Indian named Sanders around here. Know him?"

*Tipped?" Floyd's eyes searched his.

"Breed over at Fort Was.h.i.+ta told me. Sanders is wanted for murder."

"And you don't want us?"

"I take the jobs given me," Zeb replied, "and n.o.body has given me a warrant on you boys."

Zeb had stopped in such a position that Charlie dared not shoot into him from behind for fear of hitting Floyd; and if Cad attempted to draw he must risk a point-blank mix-up in which anybody, and probably everybody, would get hurt. It was not a situation any of them relished, but Floyd alone appreciated Zeb's strategy.

He grinned, showing a set of beautiful strong white teeth. "You were always a smart one, Zeb," he said. "Never miss a trick, do you?" "Uh-huh ... I missed one this time. That tip was too pat. I should have known somebody had baited a trap."

Floyd's eyes seemed to shadow. "Now, I wouldn't say that, Zeb. Almost anybody might miss a trick like that." He paused. "Even me," he said. "I might not guess a thing like that."

Suddenly, Zeb Rawlings realized that what Floyd said was true. He had not known.

Charlie Gant had set this up on his own initiative. Had Cad known? Zeb decided that he had, and that he was nervous now, worried about Floyd's reaction.

The only man here who knew exactly what he wanted was Charlie Gant; and Charlie, unless he moved, was out of the play. Cad would hesitate to act until Floyd did; and Floyd might not act at all, although he was the dangerous one. "Sounds like a mistake all the way around," Zeb commented, "a mistake that could buy a lot of grief for all concerned. I think it would be a good idea to forget it, right here and now."

Charlie Gant laughed. "When we've got you boxed? Now isn't that a pretty foolish notion?"

"Right now," Zeb said, "n.o.body is pus.h.i.+ng you boys. n.o.body has been ordered to pick up any one of you. If anything happens here today every deputy marshal in the Territory will have one purposea"to bring you boys in for a hanging." "So?" Charlie said. "We've been chased before."

"By Federal marshals? Who don't have to stop at state lines?" There was no sense in talking to Charlie. Floyd was the key to this situation, and what Floyd decided to do would be done. Zeb's move was to walk right up to Floyd and face him, and throw their planning out the window. They had a bear by the tail, and Zeb could not let go. If anybody let go, it had to be them. "I'd say, Floyd, that we're into something here that can get somebody hurt, and without anybody gaining anything from ita"except Charlie, who wants me killed. I'd take it as a favor if you boys would just walk out of here and ride off."

Charlie laughed again.

Floyd was considering ita"Zeb knew he was. Floyd tossed off his drink and put the gla.s.s down on the bar.

"I think that's a good idea, Zeb," he said coolly. "I think it's a very good idea."

Charlie's chair slammed back. "Floyd!" he yelled. "Are you crazy? We've got him!

We've got him dead to rights!"

"Who wants him?" Floyd asked. "Charlie, the next time youa"" Zeb Rawlings was tight with expectation. He dared not turn his head from watching Cad and Floyd to see what Charlie was up to; but at that instant, at some signal from Charlie, Cad Pickett took a step back and Charlie yelled, "Cad! You declared yourself in!" And Cad Pickett drew. Floyd started to yell, but Zeb Rawlings acted. He grabbed Floyd's arm and spun him from the bar, sending him toppling into Cad, whose gun went off harmlessly into the ceiling.

Charlie's gun exploded and a bullet fanned Zeb's ear, and then he saw Floyd was coming up with a gun. Cad Pickett jerked free, bringing his gun down, and Zeb shot, smas.h.i.+ng a bullet into the outlaw who was immediately behind Floyd, and Floyd fired, plunging to his feet as he did so. Zeb shot, then turned his gun and threw a quick shot at Charlie, who jumped back. Everything happened in a matter of split seconds, but Zeb would never forget the look on Charlie as that gun flared in his face. Zeb felt the blow of a bullet, and then Floyd was on his feet and firing at him. They were scarcely ten feet apart when Zeb fired and the two heavy .44 slugs knocked Floyd back. Zeb had put two bullets right through his heart at point-blank range. He put a third shot into Floyd's skull, and then dropped the muzzle of his gun on Cad.

Pickett screamed, "No! No!" and Zeb wheeled to fire again at Charlie.

But Charlie Gant was gonea"the side door stood open.

It ended like that. He had taken Pickett in, wounded, but glad to be alive. Floyd was dead and, outlaw though the man was, Zeb Rawlings regretted the killing, knowing that Charlie had trapped his brother into a gun battle he had never wanted.

Charlie Gant was seen no more in the Territory, and there had been that rumor that he had gone to Montanaa"but that had been several years ago. Like it or not, Zeb Rawlings knew that he was tied to Charlie Gant as long as both of them lived, tied by the hatred and the frustration that was in Charlie. And now Charlie was back, and Zeb Rawlings was taking his family to a lonely ranch, where he himself would for a time at least be the only hand. He could expect Charlie to know that.

Chapter 22.

Zeb Rawlings looked across the table at Julie, then at Lilith. "I want an end to it, Lil. I don't want my boys growing up with that hanging over their heads. There's something driving Charlie Gant that won't rest." "What about you?" Julie demanded. "What of you, Zeb Rawlings? He's leaving you alone now, he's left town. We can leave in a matter of minutes, but you won't go."

"I have something to do first," he said quietly. "I've got to do it, Julie." "There's been times ... the times you've hunted someone, gone for weeks, even months. Or the times you were hurt ... like that summer you were left for dead up on Yellow Ridge. And you would have died if someone hadn't come along. "I never complained, Zeb. I didn't say anything. It was your job, and you knew how to do it better than anything. But not thisa"this isn't your town." "Julie ..."

"No one's asked you to face Gant. It isn't your job to hunt him down. We could leave right now, but you won't.

"We could forget all this, Zeb. We could leave it all behind. We could go down to that ranch where the boys could grow up, free and clear of all this. "The times are changing. Look down the street, you'll see only a few men wear guns any more, where eight out of ten used to. Lou Ramsey knows. "Think, Zeb. Is it so important that you go after Gant? Is it?"

"Yes."

"Why? Because it's an old score you've never settled? Because he shot you once?

Because you think you're leaving something unfinished? Is it your pride, Zeb?"

"I'm sorry, Julie."

"Zeb! What is it? I'm your wife! I'm Julie, remember? What about the time after we were married in Salt Lake when you worked on the Comstock? Remember the fire at the Yellow Jack and Crown Point when you worked for hours helping with the rescue? Wasn't I there? Was I anywhere but at the collar of the shaft, making coffee, ready with blankets when you came out of that hole? ... Zeb? What is it?"

"It's Charlie Gant. I made the boys promise not to tell you. He said he would hunt us down, wherever we were ... he hinted he'd strike at me through you, maybe through the boys. He said he'd find us ... I can't leave that hanging, Julie. I could never ride away from the ranch thinking he might come while I'm gone. He's a coward, Julie, and being a coward he would strike at me any way he could ... but he could only get at me through you. "I think I know what he's planning, and if I do, I'll be doing the law a service."

Turning on his heel, he walked away from them and went out of the door. "I guess there's nothing more pig-headed than a man with a sense of honor," Lilith said. "Cleve was the same way."

She put her hand over Julie's. "But you know as well as I do that this time he's right; and believe me, it's better this way."

A buckboard rattled by in the streets, trace chains jingling.

"At least," Lilith said, "you won't be waiting alone."

Linus came in suddenly. "Where'd pa go?"

"Out ... he had some business to attend to."

"Is something wrong?" Prescott looked at his mother. "Is it that Charlie Gant?

Pa's not afraid of him!"

"You can be sure of that," Lilith said. "Do you boys know any games?"

"You mean like tag?" Linus asked.

"Or musical chairs?" Prescott suggested.

"I mean like poker," Lilith said.

"Poker?"

"Let's go up to the room. Seems to me I've a deck of cards."

"But we never ... ma wouldn't let us play cards." "Part of your education," Lilith said brusquely. "A man's a fool to gamble, take that from me, who was married to a gambler. But you'd best know how, because there might come a time.

"Why, later on I'll even show you how the ones gamble who don't plan to gamblea"I mean the ones that want to take the gamble out of cards and make it a sure thing. Cleve was a straight gambler, but he had to know how that was done so he wouldn't be cheated. I think there's nothing to cure a person of wanting to gamble like knowing how many ways you can be cheated. "Now, you just sit down and let your Aunt Lilith show you something about sleeve hold-outs, bugs, slick aces, s.h.i.+ners, readers, and second deals. "First thing to learn is percentages. Ninty-nine men out of a hundred, Linus, who play cards or shoot c.r.a.ps all their lives never know the correct odds. That's what gives an honest gambler an edge. If he knows the correct chances of filling a hand or making a point, he's got something going for him." "Aunt Lilith," Julie protested, "do you think you should?" "I surely do. Now you hush up, Julie, and let an old ladya" my heavens, did I say that?a"have her way for once.

"Most things in life are a gamble. Take mining ... we made several fortunes out of mining, and put at least two of them right back in the ground trying to get more.

"Did I ever tell you where we got the last one? It was out of the first claim we ever had ... left to me by a man I used to talk to once in a while, cheered him up, sort of. Well, he left me this claim, and Cleve and I went out there and found it all worked out, so we left it. Years later, when we were broke, Cleve got to thinking about it, and he remembered a formation out there that was just like it was in one of the best mines on the Comstock. "When we first got that claim everybody was looking for golda"gold was all they could think of, and there on the Comstock this black stuff kept getting in the way. Finally, a man investigated and found out that black stuff they had been cussing and throwing out was silver!

"Well, Cleve remembered that rock formation and he remembered there had been black stuff on that dump, so we went back. Spent our last on beans and salt pork and a little bit of flour.

"We worked it ourselves, worked to get enough ore out to s.h.i.+p. Cleve, he went back there and started digging out where he saw that formation, and he found a little powder left over from the old working, and used that. "He used to throw the ore in the wheelbarrow and I'd wheel it out. I'd wheel fifty or sixty a day, and do what cooking and was.h.i.+ng there was to ... but we got out a good many tons of it and s.h.i.+pped it out. Sure enough, it was silver, and we'd made a big strike!

"Now, Linus, you look here. You hold the cards like this for a bottom deal, and you keep the top card out a bit over the edge of the pack, drawing it back as you take off the bottom card.

"One thing you've got to remember. A clever gambler never does anything fancy with a decka"that's for show-offs. It even helps to seem a little clumsy, like this ..."

Zeb Rawlings walked down the wide s.p.a.ce between the two rows of stalls in the livery barn. His wagon, loaded with household gear, had been left in front of one of the stalls. Going to it, he lifted the lid on a long, narrow box tied to the side of the wagon, and from it he took his rifle scabbard. He drew the Winchester from the scabbard and began feeding sh.e.l.ls into the magazine. Lou Ramsey came in the door behind him, and Zeb glanced around. "I'll take that rifle, Zeb," Ramsey said.

Zeb looked at him, but made no move to hand over the rifle; he simply slipped another cartridge into the magazine.

"Your pistol, too."

"Sony, Lou, but I can't oblige."

Lou Ramsey pushed his coat back and placed his hand on the b.u.t.t of his gun. With his other hand he reached toward Zeb.

Zeb indicated the hand on the pistol. "Thought you didn't use that any more."

"I'll use it if I have to. I'd rather you didn't make me use it." "Lou," Zeb said quietly, "I'm going out of here, and I'm taking this rifle with me."

"To kill Gant."

"Maybe ... and maybe I'll get killed. That's your idea of this, isn't it, Lou? That it's him or me, a personal thing. Well, it could become that. If I settled down with my family and he came hunting me ... and he will comea"he as much as told me so.

"Unless I can stop him now, stop him red-handed in the process of breaking the law. Then it will be up to the law to put him away for good. The law, Lou. But I haven't much chance without your help."

Lou drew his gun slowly. "Your rifle first." Just as he seemed about to hand it over, Zeb swung the rifle barrel with a quick gesture. It caught Lou on the side of the skull and he dropped as if shot.

Quickly, Zeb turned and went out of the stable. The train was whistling for the station, and he wasted no time. He knew what he had to do, and he knew just how difficult it would be to do alone. He bought his ticket and boarded the train as soon as it stopped. Hurriedly he found a seat and sank into it, putting a newspaper over his face, as if asleep. If Lou came to soon enough he would stop him, and this time he could not evade him, nor would he resist him again. He thought too much of Lou, and understood his problems too well.

He waited, his mouth dry, listening to every sound within the car and on the platform outside. Every hurried step, every surrept.i.tious movement made him positive that he had been discovered and that the next instant the paper would be pulled from his face.

Suddenly the cars jerked, the train chugged and spat steam, and the big drivers began to turn slowly. He heard running feet upon the platform and somebody swung onto the train. Zeb remained where he was, his face covered. The wheels began to move faster; the train chug-chugged ahead, then picked up speed, the whistle blowing.

Not until the tram was rolling fast did Zeb remove the newspaper and look around, searching for Ramsey, or for any of the men who rode with Charlie Gant. For an hour at least the train would be crossing a wide plain, with only occasional cuts through the hills, and no place where it would slow up or where thieves would be likely to bring it to a stop.

Zeb took a cigar from his pocket and lighted it. This was the one luxury he allowed himself. He sat back in the seat and thought of the railroad that lay ahead. He had been over every foot of it, and one by one he checked off the possibilities.

Yet in the last a.n.a.lysis it mattered very litte where they stopped the train. It would be a showdown there, regardless. However, it would, more than likely, be in the mountains.