Two Miles to the Border (A J.T. Edson Western) Page 3

  That situation had changed abruptly!

  A rifle had started to crack from an upstairs window of the house opposite the bank. On the heels of the shots had come words which drove into Jeff like a red-hot branding iron burning its mark of ownership on the rump of a freshly-caught mustang.

  Whoever the woman doing the yelling might have been, she had possessed a tolerably powerful set of lungs. Her voice carried along the street and, taken with the shooting, had left no lingering doubts as to the five men’s true purpose outside the bank,

  After a moment’s surprise, realization had flooded over Jefferson Trade. The riders, now charging along the street in his direction and firing off their revolvers, had just completed a successful robbery of the bank. Which meant that Brady Anchor must have been one of the victims.

  Not that Jeff had felt any anxiety over his uncle’s well-being. From the way they had been acting, the owlhoots had reckoned that nobody suspected them. That implied there had been no shooting, or other disturbance, to attract the attention of the people outside the bank. Knowing his Uncle Brady, Jeff had concluded that he must have been taken by surprise and covered before he could get his Colt Thunderer into action.

  Faced by the owlhoots’ weapons, Uncle Brady could have been counted upon to act in a sensible manner. Unless he had seen an almost certain opportunity to resist, he would have remained passive and gone along with the gang’s demands.

  Jeff was willing to bet that his uncle was alive and well. Hog-tied and gagged most likely, certainly madder than two boiled owls, but not injured in any way.

  One thing was obvious to Jeff. No matter how the owl-hoots had left Brady Anchor, they were certain to be toting off his and his nephew’s money along with the rest of the loot.

  Being aware of how the loss of the money would affect their plans for a prosperous future, Jeff had felt disinclined to let it slip away without making a damned good stab at retrieving it.

  Bending along the sidewalk towards the approaching riders, he had studied them. The white flour sacks swinging from the ‘drummer’s’ and ‘rancher’s’ saddle horns would hold the loot. So they had struck him as being the jaspers to go after.

  Unfortunately, the choice of victims had been taken out of his hands.

  The black-dressed cuss in the lead had seen Jeff and clearly considered that he would be a tougher proposition than the town’s folks. All the people ahead of the gang were getting the hell under cover when lead started to whistle in their direction.

  Not that Jeff had blamed the citizens for their caution. If there had been less at stake, he might have done the same. He was no longer a Texas Ranger, paid to lock horns with gun-toting, bullet-throwing owlhoots as part of his day’s work.

  Sure enough, the ‘undertaker’ had yelled to the skinny runt closest to the sidewalk, telling him to take cards. What was more, the gangling owlhoot had looked right pleased at being told to take Jeff out of the game. There was a cuss just itching to become a killer, hot and eager to send lead into another human being. A man was worse than a fool if he took chances with that kind.

  Instinctively, Jeff swung his hips in a manner that cleared the way for his right hand to go under the buckskin jacket. Even as his fingers closed around the staghorn grips of the Colt Civilian Model Peacemaker, he saw the gangling owl-hoot drawing a careful bead on him.

  Something had to be done!

  And fast!

  Chapter Three – Did They Get You?

  Instead of remaining erect to be shot, Jefferson Trade skidded to a stop. He crouched, by thrusting back his left leg and sinking the bent right knee to the sidewalk. On his way down, he lifted the Colt slightly and shoved it forward. By the time his knee was touching the planks, the revolver had emerged from beneath his jacket.

  Jeff’s action came as a complete surprise to the ‘wrangler’. With the revolver’s hammer just commencing its forward swing, the gangling owlhoot had the disconcerting experience of watching his prospective target sinking rapidly from sight. When the Colt bellowed, Billy knew—with a horrible, sickening certainly—that he had missed and was right likely to pay a stiff penalty for his error.

  Showing a complete indifference to the eerie ‘splat!’ caused by the owlhoot’s bullet passing over his head, Jeff completed his kneeling posture. He extended his Colt-filled right fist at arm’s length and shoulder height, supporting it by enfolding its wrist with the fingers of his left hand. With that done, he took swift, but careful, aim along the four and three-quarters of an inch long barrel.

  Under the circumstances, there was only one way in which Jeff could handle the threat to his life.

  He must shoot to kill!

  With that in mind, Jeff squeezed the Colt’s trigger. Propelled by forty grains of powder, the .44 bullet twirled from the muzzle at nine hundred and ten feet per second. It flew straight to where Jeff had intended for it to go, into the centre of the owlhoot’s forehead.

  Caught by a flat-nosed, 200-grain ball—of the caliber, size and power originally intended to be fired through a Winchester Model of 1873 rifle or carbine—Billy was slammed back against the cantle of his saddle. Going onwards, through his brains, the bullet literally burst its way out at the rear of his skull Sliding to the left, he toppled on to the rump of the ‘drummer’s’ horse and bounced from it to the street.

  On the point of turning his Merwin & Hulbert in Jeff’s direction, the ‘drummer’ was taken by surprise as his mount gave a startled bound. Instead of trying to shoot, he devoted all his attention to retaining his hold on the weapon and staying in the saddle.

  None of the other members of the gang were positioned so that they could take a shot at Jeff. Nor did they appear to be unduly eager to do so. Showing no hints of concern over Billy’s fate, they tried to ride faster as his lifeless body went crashing to the dirt behind them.

  Thrusting himself erect as the remainder of the owlhoots rushed by, Jeff hooked his left hand over the hitching rail. He pulled with it, to add impetus as he vaulted over. Already men, carrying guns, were darting from the buildings along the street. Others sprinted towards the bank. Its door was still closed and none of the victims had emerged.

  Noticing all that while leaping over the rail, Jeff alighted so that he was facing towards the departing owlhoots. Once more he adopted the double-handed shooting stance, but stood erect with his feet spread apart. It was his intention to try to fetch down the horses which were carrying the money.

  Coming from behind Jeff, a bullet plucked at his Stetson and sent it spinning from his head. Twice more in quick succession, lead hissed through the air very close to him. It had been fired, in an attempt to halt the fleeing owlhoots, by men along the street. Inadvertently, Jeff had come between them and their targets. A fourth bullet screamed by, convincing him that he was in a mighty dangerous position.

  There was only one way out of it!

  Growling curses at the wildly shooting citizens to his rear, Jeff dived for the safety of the ground. Alighting belly-down, he saw that none of the citizens’ bullets had taken effect on the owlhoots. Before he could line up his Colt the gang swung around behind the last building of the town and disappeared from his view.

  ‘Are you all right, young feller?’ asked a man, running up as Jeff came to his feet. ‘Did they get you?’

  ‘Nope,’ Jeff growled bitterly. ‘Damned if they didn’t try, though.’

  ‘Owlhoots can be real mean when they’re running from a robbery,’ the citizen warned, with the air of letting Jeff into a closely kept secret.

  “Owlhoots?’ Jeff spat out furiously. ‘I mean those stupid sons-of-bitches back along the street!’

  Swinging angrily away from the open-mouthed town-dweller, Jeff returned the Colt to its place under his jacket. If Billy had been alive, he might have been interested to discover why his theory—on the possibility of Jeff being able to make a fast draw from such a position—had gone wrong.

  In one way, the dead owlhoot had been correct. A fast draw wit
h a Peacemaker would not have been possible from a butt-to-the-rear holster set so high on the belt. Unfortunately for Billy, Jefferson Trade had solved that problem in a most satisfactory manner.

  The secret was that Jeff did not wear a holster.

  A thin metal plate was riveted securely to the right side of his waist belt, with a narrow slot running along half its length from the forward end. The original hammer-screw of the Peacemaker had been replaced by one with a special double head. The pin-headed upper portion of the screw was slipped into the mouth of the belt’s slot until it sank into a slight depression at the rear end. Once there, it retained the two pounds, five ounces revolver on the two-and-a-quarter inch wide belt with reasonable safety. The weapon could be pivoted back and forward in the slot, or drawn swiftly, should the need to do so arise.

  Having replaced the Colt, Jeff retrieved his hat. He scowled savagely at the hole in the crown for a moment, thinking of how close he had come to being killed.

  ‘Loco bastards!’ Jeff told himself, as he set the hat on his head. ‘It’d’ve served ’em right happen they’d shot me ’n’ got hung for doing it.’

  With that sentiment delivered, Jeff darted a glance at the dead owlhoot. Satisfied that his victim would not be going any place under his own power, but was also equally unable to answer questions about the rest of the gang, Jeff stalked grimly towards the bank. By the time he arrived, the sufferers had been liberated and were coming out.

  ‘You all right, Uncle Brady?’ Jeff inquired, noting with relief that his kinsman showed no signs of injury.

  ‘Riled is all,’ Brady Anchor replied and looked along the street. ‘They got away, huh?’

  ‘All bar one,’ Jeff admitted. ‘And he wasn’t toting any of the money. They got away with our roll, I’d reckon.’

  ‘Every blasted red cent of it,’ Brady growled, using an unusual amount of profanity for him. ‘Didn’t you see the flour sacks, nephew?’

  ‘I saw ’em,’ Jeff confessed. ‘Trouble being, the hombre I downed wouldn’t let me do nothing about it. Time I could’ve, some stupid bastard down this ways nigh on let a blue window through my skull’

  ‘Didn’t do your hat much good, either,’ Brady drawled, eyeing the bullet hole in the Stetson. ‘Come on. We’d best take out after ’em.’

  At that moment Sheriff Minter came up. The fact that he and his two deputies—who trailed along on his heels—had arrived on the scene so late did not appear to surprise any of the assembled citizens whose taxes helped to pay their combined salaries.

  Minter was a lugubrious beanpole with a thin, sharp, miserable face and a prominent Adam’s apple. Clad in a cheap brown suit, grubby white shirt without a collar, a tan Stetson and flat-heeled town boots, he was not an imposing example of Western law enforcement. There was a Colt Peacemaker in the holster of his gun belt, but it could not by any stretch of imagination be called the rig of a good man with a gun.

  Nor were the sheriff’s two deputies the kind to fill Brady Anchor and Jefferson Trade with expectations of efficient service. One was tall, young, not bad looking in a sullen way and dressed in cheap cowhand finery. His gun belt and white handled Colt Artillery Model Peacemaker had been set up for raid draw work and his right hand hovered the gun’s butt as he moved through the crowd.

  Shorter and thickset, the other had on less fancy range clothes. They looked as if they were frequently slept in; and not on the cleanest of beds. Hanging at his right side, in a tied down holster, was a Remington Navy revolver that had not been converted from cap-and-ball.

  Studying the deputies, Brady and his nephew formed identical assessments of their worth. Small-town bullies. Hard-cases when all the chips were stacked in their favor. The kind who used and abused the authority which went along with wearing a peace officer’s badge.

  ‘All right, all right,’ Minter demanded, glaring about him as if expecting to find the gang had awaited his arrival. ‘Where’re they at?’

  ‘Headed west, last I saw of ’em,’ Jeff drawled, having taken the sheriff’s measure. Like Dutchy Mueller had said, meeting him was no pleasure. ‘You-all ready, Uncle Brady?’

  ‘This young feller downed one of ’em,’ a citizen supplemented, before Brady could reply. ‘Looked like he was fixing to get some more. Then he dived on to his belly and didn’t shoot.’

  ‘Neither’d you, with half the blasted town throwing lead ’round your ears,’ Jeff blazed indignantly. ‘They was like to’ve killed...’

  ‘I want a posse!’ the sheriff declared, cutting off Jeff’s angry tirade. ‘Go get your hosses and guns, them’s wants to come.’

  From the look of things, a number of the citizens were willing to volunteer. Too many, in Brady’s considered opinion. There was, he realized, no point in rushing off en masse at that stage of the affair. If horses and armed men had been available as soon as the gang had fled, an immediate chase would have been practical and advisable. As things had turned out, there would be no hope of a large posse—many of whom would be indifferently mounted—speedily overtaking the owlhoots. So a slower, more carefully organized pursuit was the only way in which they might hope to achieve success.

  Unless the gang had taken precautions and left relays of mounts at intervals across the county, they could not keep going at a gallop for more than a couple of miles. Maybe not even that far, if they were relying upon the horses Brady had seen outside the saloon. After that, sheer necessity would cause them to slow down. As they would want to retain the animals in a condition to travel fast should the need arise, they would most likely soon be moving at a walk and keeping a careful watch on their rear. So a carefully organized pursuit by a small party was the answer and not a wild rush by a large number of men.

  Although Brady knew that the sheriff and citizens would quite rightly—as they were not acquainted with him and his nephew—refuse to permit such a thing, he believed that Jeff and he could handle the gang without extra help. So he wanted to do the next best thing, make certain that the posse was properly organized and equipped.

  ‘I’d only take a few gents who’ve got real good horses and can ride hard ’n’ fast on them,’ Brady suggested.

  ‘You would, huh?’ Minter sniffed, eyeing the speaker in a way which showed he was allowing outward appearances to rule his feelings.

  ‘Yep,’ Brady confirmed, displaying no annoyance. Others had been fooled by his looks, to their cost. Them jaspers’ve already built up a fair head-start and it won’t get less while we’re gathering our horses. So it’s going to take hard, fast and long riding to run them down.’

  ‘I’d say the gentleman has a valid point, Sheriff,’ remarked an authoritative voice. ‘It’s none of my business, of course—’

  ‘Go ahead, Arnold,’ authorized a more pompous, fruity set of tones, which held a note of implying that the first speaker was a person of importance and well worth listening to. ‘As Vice-President of the Texas Bankers’ Protective Association, you’ve had plenty of experience in such matters.’

  The crowd was parting hurriedly, allowing the two speakers to pass through.

  Anger had darkened Augustus Cuthbertson’s normally florid face to a deeper ruddy hue. He was a large man, with a flabby body that strained the seams of his costly and—on a more suitable figure—stylish clothes. He was not happy-fat. Hard and unpleasant of features, his face gave a warning of a sly, bullying and avaricious nature.

  The man striding along at the banker’s side was tall and broad shouldered. Although in his early fifties, he looked to be in hard physical condition. Under his black Stetson, graying hair added to the distinguished aura that he exuded. He was tanned, handsome, attired just as well and expensively as Cuthbertson; but did his tailor better justice. Everything about him, his dark brown suit, sober white shirt, bow-tie, Hersome gaiter boots, expression of calm competence and proud carriage suggested that he was a man to be reckoned with. He must also be a person of considerable influence and authority if the deference accorded to him by the bank’
s president was anything to go on.

  ‘Well, Sheriff,’ the distinguished-looking man went on, halting near Brady. ‘If I were you, I would do as this gentleman suggests. Take a small posse of picked men, all mounted on the best horses available and who will be prepared to work hard to catch the robbers.’

  ‘That’s just what I was fixing to do, Mr. Barnstaple,’ Minter stated, sounding so sincere that he might have been telling the truth. ‘So I’ll take

  There the peace officer’s words floundered off into nothing. Despite his ‘sincere’ assertion, he had no idea of who would be suitable.

  ‘You can count me and my nephew in, Sheriff,’ Brady offered.

  ‘Comes down to it,’ Jeff went on, tact in the face of bungling never having been one of his better qualities. ‘Happen you don’t make a start real soon, we’ll be going without you.’

  ‘Is that so?’ growled the taller deputy, advancing a couple of steps and halting with his right hand prominently displayed over the butt of his gun. ‘Just how come you pair’s so all-fired interested in Rocksprings’ folks’s doings?’

  ‘We got that way because I was in the bank,’ Brady explained, giving Jeff no chance to do something impulsive. ‘Those yahoos rode out with five thousand dollars belonging to us.’

  ‘You didn’t do anything to stop them taking it,’ Mrs. Kimber accused. She was filled with indignation at having been left in such an embarrassing position. In her desire to gain sympathy—and take a prominent part in the proceedings—she swung her wrath to the stocky man.

  ‘No, ma’am,’ Brady agreed mildly. ‘Any time I find four guns waving ’round in my direction, I don’t figure on stopping the jaspers behind ’em doing what they want to do.’

  ‘And you re wanting to ride with the posse?’ sneered the taller deputy.

  ‘In it, or ahead of it’s all one ’n’ the same to us,’ Jeff declared. ‘This time Uncle Brady’ll be in a position to do some gun-waving on his own account.’