Border Dogs Read online

  BAD COMPANY

  Durant slumped. “I had to catch up to you, Ranger. Can’t you understand?”

  “I understand this,” the Ranger said. “There’s no time to take you back to town. Make no mistake, Durant. You get in my way while I’m hunting these men, I’ll kill you graveyard dead. Fair enough?”

  Durant settled into his saddle, his cuffed wrists resting on the saddle horn. “Fair enough,” he said. “All I want is to catch up with Martin Zell and kill the men who murdered my family. After that, I’m ready for whatever follows.”

  The Ranger stood for a moment, looking up at him in the morning sunlight. “You really are convinced this is Zell’s cavalry.”

  “I’m betting my life on it,” Durant said.

  “That you are….”

  “A storyteller in the best tradition of the Old West.”

  —Golden Spur Award–winning author Matt Braun

  BORDER

  DOGS

  Ralph Cotton

  A SIGNET BOOK

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

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  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, September 1999

  20 19 18

  Copyright © Ralph Cotton, 1999

  All rights reserved

  ISBN: 978-1-101-65583-2

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Printed in the United States of America

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  For Mary Lynn…of course

  Prologue

  The heat of midafternoon pressed heavy on the sloping stretch of rocky land and on the wide stretch of wavering sand flats beneath it. In this fiery basin, all lesser creatures of the desert floor had vanished, taken to whatever thin slices of black shade they found among jagged rock crevices or beneath the bleached and brittle remnants of deadfall pinyon and juniper.

  A scorpion had ventured out for reasons only a scorpion would know, and after a few short circles with its pincers up as if raising a plea to the blazing heavens, it skirted across the hot sand and back inside the pale white skull of some larger ill-fated creature whose mortal reckoning had come years past.

  For a while, a hawk had floated overhead on an updraft of dry, scorched air, but finding nothing of interest moving about in the wavering heat below, the big bird had soon ceased its hunt and drifted away across the crest of the basin toward less harsh terrain, shedding the scalding sun for some darkened rocky loft. Now the only creatures remaining in the arid inferno at this time of day were men—men with guns. And little else to sustain them.

  A dry canteen lay at the foot of the rocky slope near the body of a dead horse. A blood trail, now turned black and dry, led upward into the rocks to the body of an old bank robber named Doc Septon, whose dead eyes stared up into the burning sun, and whose dust-matted hair swayed on a slow hot breeze. Twenty yards higher into the rocks, three riflemen made a break from behind a split boulder and struggled upward toward the crest of the hill. When one of them, a young gunman named Wandering Joe Gully, heard no sound of rifle fire behind them, he looked back down the slopes, staggering in place. His eyes searched through the white glare of sunlight and wavering heat. He called out to the black man who’d gone ahead of him, “I think they’re dead, Durant. Wait up. Doc must’ve shot them both.”

  But Willis Durant neither slowed nor looked back. He knew better. That blasted ranger was still there, still coming, still set on hunting them down and killing them, the same as he’d done to the other three members of their gang over the past four days. This was no time for guessing, or for wishful thinking. When Billy Dig slowed down in front of him, Willis Durant pushed him on. “Keep moving, Billy. Wandering Joe’s give out on us.” Sweat shined on Durant’s forehead. He wiped a shirtsleeve across his face and kept climbing, his breath heaving in his chest.

  “But what if he’s right?” Billy Dig’s voice was a choking rasp. “What if Doc did kill them?”

  “Damn it!” Now Durant poked him forward with the tip of his rifle barrel. “Do you really believe that? Hunh? Do you?” He glared into Billy Dig’s eyes, goading him on.

  “Jesus!” Billy Dig struggled, nearly dropping his rifle as Durant pressed him upward. “Is this ever going to end?”

  Durant glanced back, still moving upward on the shifting sand and loose rock. Wandering Joe had given up—that’s what this amounted to, he thought. Did the man want to trick his mind into believing the Ranger was gone, that he had the upper hand here? Well, let him. Durant pressed on, his rifle feeling slippery in his wet hand.

  Behind him, Durant heard Wandering Joe call out over the rocky slope, “Damn you, Ranger! Are you down there? Can’t you see when you’re licked? We’ve won fair and square—we outlasted yas! You’ll die down there! Why don’t you go on home?”

  A tense silence passed, then near the base of the slope, the Ranger, Sam Burrack, called up to him, “You know we can’t do that, Joe. We’ve got to finish this, one way or the other. If you want to give up, now’s the time to do it. We’ve got your water. We’ve got your horses. All you’ve got left is a hard climb to nowhere.”

  A shot rang out from the rifle in Wandering Joe’s hand as he sidled over into cover behind a rock. “But we’ve got bullets, Ranger, and you don’t! We can hold out! Get on out of here…who’ll know the difference? What do you say, Ranger? Call it a draw? Maybe finish it some other time? This don’t make no sense, out here in the heat!”

  The Ranger didn’t answer. Instead, he slumped against the rock and l
ooked at Sheriff Boyd Tackett. “Get ready. Wandering Joe’s had it. He’s talking himself into making one last big play on us.”

  “Wish he’d done it an hour ago.” Tackett raised his hat brim and wiped a hand across his brow. “Four days we’ve been fighting these boys across the basin. Maybe Joe is right. I’m ready to pack it in myself while our horses can still make it to a water hole. What about you?”

  “Nope. Not until the job’s done. You shouldn’t have asked me to come along if you weren’t serious.” There was a bit of snap to the Ranger’s voice.

  Weren’t serious? Sheriff Tackett stared at the Ranger. They were both dried out and spent. Tackett knew it. White streaks of salt lined their dusty shirts, under their arms, down the middle of their backs. Tackett could have sworn he’d seen heat waver up off the Ranger’s shoulders. “I swear, Sam. You don’t have to be so testy with me. I’ve stuck right with you, haven’t I?”

  A moment of dry, hot silence passed. Then Tackett said, “Tell the truth, Sam. You miss her, don’t ya? You miss that little lady of yours.” Another silence passed as the Ranger raised his sweat-darkened sombrero, then lowered it and adjusted it on his forehead. As Tackett spoke, he’d hugged close to the rock beside the Ranger when another rifle shot exploded, kicking up a sharp spray of sandstone dust.

  The little lady? Miss her? The Ranger thought about it for a second and murmured something under his breath. He shook his head, broke open the big Swiss rifle, flipped out the spent cartridge, and popped a new round in its place. He snapped the rifle shut. At his waist, his big .45 caliber pistol sat empty in his holster—his cartridge belt empty as well. “You beat all I’ve ever seen, Tackett, asking something like that, at a time like this.” The Ranger glanced around the rock long enough to catch a glimpse of Wandering Joe moving down toward them, out from behind the rock now, staggering back and forth behind a tangle of deadfall.

  “Well”—Tackett took his last four bullets from his holster belt—“it’s gonna be a few more minutes before Joe makes his move. I’m just curious what your feelings are toward the little lady.”

  The Ranger winced. “Her name is Maria. You wouldn’t want her to hear you call her little lady. Believe me.”

  “Why?” Tackett shrugged. A bullet ricochet whined off the rock above their heads. “She is a lady…she ain’t all that big?”

  “She’s just real touchy about names like that.” The Ranger laid the big .58 caliber Swiss rifle across his lap, leaned back against the rock, and let Wandering Joe fire his rifles empty. When he stopped and reloaded, the Ranger swung the big rifle around the edge of the rock and fired a shot. The powerful blast seemed to shake the mountainside loose from the rest of the world for a second as chunks of wood blew out of the tangled deadfall.

  Wandering Joe cried out “Lord God” at the sound and the impact of the big rifle. The Ranger leaned against the rock, rubbed his shoulder, and took out one of the four remaining rifle cartridges. “That ought to jar him into making up his mind.” He pushed up the dusty brim on his pearl gray sombrero. “As far as missing her…sure I do. She’s a good woman. She saved my life. Hadn’t been for her I’d never have killed Montana Red Hollis last summer.”

  “Where’d you get such a god-awful firearm as that?” Sheriff Tackett asked, looking up from loading his old .36 caliber Navy Colt. He rounded a fingertip inside his ear. “I’m surprised it ain’t made ya stone deaf.” When the Ranger didn’t answer, Tackett finished reloading his pistol, then asked in a lowered tone, “Do ya love her, Sam? Tell the truth now. It’s just you and me here.”

  “That’s a very personal thing for you to ask, Tackett. I’d never ask how you feel about the Widow Morris.” The Ranger felt his face redden in annoyance, and he looked away, around the rock, seeing Wandering Joe lunge behind a tall cactus, moving down.

  “But you could ask if you wanted to. I wouldn’t get mad over it. If I was in love with Widow Morris, I wouldn’t deny it none.”

  “Come out and fight in the open, you yellow lawdogs! Fight like men!” Wandering Joe leaned around the side of the cactus, fired three shots in a row, then pulled back out of sight.

  “I don’t know about love…Maria and I get along. We know when to step close and when to step away. We understand one another. A man in this business can’t ask for more than that now, can he?”

  The Ranger placed two rifle cartridges between the gloved fingers of his right hand, leaving his trigger finger free. “Here we go.” He raised up slightly, dusting the seat of his trousers. “Looks like Wandering Joe’s running out of sweat—fixin’ to do something.”

  “Good. It’s about dang time.”

  The Ranger called out to Wandering Joe, raising his voice to include Durant and Billy Dig higher up the slope. “Any time you’re ready, boys.”

  “They’re gone, Ranger,” Wandering Joe called out. “It’s just me left. Come up and get me!”

  The Ranger crouched down a bit and looked at Tackett. “It might be best if you take Wandering Joe down. I’ll circle up and catch the other two.”

  “Uh-uh.” Tackett shook his head. “You don’t want to get Durant cornered up there by yourself. He’s a handful.”

  “You worried about taking Wandering Joe?” The Ranger stared at him. “Because if you can’t handle him, I’ll just—”

  Tackett flared. “You know better than that, dang it!”

  “Well…?” The Ranger hesitated.

  “All right then, go on. I’ll take care of him.” Tackett stood up with a deep grunt. “How long has she been gone now?”

  “What? Who?” The Ranger stopped and gave him a glance. Fifteen yards away, Wandering Joe moved forward down the narrow foot path, his rifle up and ready.

  “Maria…how long has she been gone? Eight weeks? Ten?”

  “Pay attention here, Tackett.” The Ranger scanned a long rock spill to their left. “Didn’t you shoot Buck Whelan awhile ago? I thought I just caught a glimpse of his shotgun barrel over there.”

  “I can’t remember…” Tackett started to turn his gaze over to their left.

  “Don’t look over there,” the Ranger hissed in a low tone. “Just take care of Wandering Joe when he makes his move. If Buck’s still alive, I’ll get him on my way up.” He gazed ahead in silence for a second, watching Wandering Joe stalk forward. Then he said to Tackett in a quiet voice, “Twelve weeks tomorrow.”

  “Huh?”

  “Maria. She’s been gone twelve weeks. Should be back in Humbly sometime this weekend though…I hope.”

  “All right, lawdogs,” Wandering Joe called out to them, “you’ve hounded me as far as you’re going to!”

  “That’s a long time, Sam, twelve weeks.” Tackett held his pistol poised at his side. “I reckon that’s why you’ve been so cross and irritable.”

  “Have I?” the Ranger asked without turning to him. “I hadn’t noticed. Are you ready yet?”

  “Yeah, get on out of here,” Tackett said in a whisper.

  “Watch out for ole Buck’s shotgun until I can get around behind him,” the Ranger warned him.

  Willis Durant gazed out across the deep ravine, then slumped against the wall of rock behind him. A draft of hot air swirled around him. “I thought you knew this country,” he said to Billy Dig beside him. Beneath them stood a sheer drop of nearly five hundred feet. At the bottom a thin stream snaked its way among jagged upthrusts of rock.

  Billy Dig took a deep breath and let it out, shaking his sweaty head. “I…I do. It’s just that today it all looks alike for some reason.” He glanced left and right along the jagged, cutaway edge of the ridge. “I’ve been on this hill a hundred times…I thought, anyway.”

  “Billy, this is not a hill. This is only half a hill.” Durant felt his breath leveling now, catching up to him. “The other half is a mile across this canyon.” He gazed back and forth, his fingers opening and closing on his rifle stock. “We’re stuck here.”

  “Buck’s still down there. Joe too,” Billy Dig said.
“Maybe one of them will do us some good.”

  “Don’t count on it, Billy.” Durant stared out across the canyon.

  Behind them, down the slope of rock and sand, the sound of Buck Whelan’s shotgun exploded, followed by the louder explosion of the big Swiss rifle. “Well, there went Buck,” Durant said. In a second, three more rifle shots resounded, not sounding as powerful as the first. Wandering Joe’s voice came up to them in a loud, painful cry; then there was silence.

  “And there goes Joe.” Durant ran a hand across his forehead. “Looks like we’ll have the Ranger down our shirts here in a minute.”

  “Any ideas?” Billy Dig stepped forward an inch, looked down, then jerked back, his face ash white beneath the sheen of dust and sweat.

  Ideas…Durant just stared at him. Then he looked down into the yawning ravine, and when he lifted his eyes back to Billy Dig, he said, “Yeah, Billy…I’m turning myself in when the Ranger gets here. What about you?”

  Billy swallowed a dry knot in his throat. He ventured forward then pulled back once more. “I can’t go to prison,” he said, gazing down. “It just ain’t in me. You’ve been there. What’d you think of it?”

  “I won’t lie to ya, Billy. It’s the worse thing ever. Nobody ought to have to go through it.” Durant’s voice had gone low, almost a whisper. “Some men can do it…some can’t. You have to decide for yourself.” His dark eyes swept over the ravine, then back to Billy Dig. “Whatever you do, you better do it quick. They’ll be here any minute.”

  “Well…I don’t want to let you down, Durant. You’ve been square with me all along. I could stick, make one last play, if you want.”

  “Naw, Billy, we’re all out of plays. You’ve never let me down. My pistol’s gone, and I got two shots in my rifle. How do you stand?”

  Billy Dig stepped forward without answering right away. He leaned his rifle between them, gazed down the sheer rock wall, then up at the wide blue sky. When he did speak, his voice had lost all expression. The voice of a dead man, Durant thought, looking at him.