Jurisdiction Page 11

  “I want you both out of town. Stay out until you know I’m gone,” said Sam.

  “Look at me, Ranger,” Tucker Miegs whined. “I’m leg-shot! I can’t get out of town. Hell, I’m lucky I can even get around at all.” He gestured with his hand toward the street. “And in this weather? You just as well kill me as run me out in this!”

  “As soon as this weather lets up,” said Sam, “you better both be gone.” He shoved Pierson’s pistol down into his belt. “I don’t want to look over my shoulder and have to see either one of you again.”

  Tucker stood up supporting himself on his cane and limped over to where his brother laid knocked cold. “What am I supposed to do? I can’t lift him.”

  Sam looked along the bar for volunteers. At the piano, two of the miners looked at one another, set down their beer mugs and came forward. “Much obliged,” said Sam, walking past them on his way to the bar. He stopped where Asa Dahl and Selectman Collins stood staring with their drinks in their hands. “I’m taking a room at your hotel tonight, Dahl. I don’t suppose it’s full up is it?”

  “I’m only a silent partner,” Dahl replied, “but I’m certain there are plenty of vacancies.”

  “Good,” said Sam, “because Hattie Odle needs a room, too. I’ll get her moved in right away.”

  “Now wait just a damn minute, Ranger!” Dahl slammed his glass down on the bar. “I’m not allowing that doped-up woman in the hotel. You saw the shape she’s in . . . she’s in a black-tar stupor. The other hotel owners won’t have her.”

  “I bet they will if you ask them real nice-like,” said Sam. “I know you’d like to do whatever you can to see that woman get herself straightened out . . .” He leaned closer, looking Dahl in the eyes. “Ain’t that right?”

  At the end of the bar, Fuller, Booker and the others watched, listening intently. Asa Dahl felt their eyes on him and grew uncomfortable. He managed a shrug. “Well . . . sure, I hate seeing anybody in that kind of shape. But you can’t expect me to vouch for her to my business partners.”

  “Why not?” Sam stared hard at him. “I’ve cut off her dope supply. She’ll have somebody looking after her.”

  “Oh? Who?” asked Dahl, cocking his brow slightly.

  “One of your sporting women,” said Sam. “I figure some of them will want to volunteer to help look after her, soon as they hear it’s all right with you.” Sam’s eyes shifted to Clare Annette who sat quietly at the piano. “Will you pass the word along, ma’am?”

  Clare Annette only nodded cautiously.

  Asa Dahl bristled. “I’m not some horse-trading dope peddler, Ranger. You can’t treat me like you did the Miegs brothers. I own established, legal businesses here. Your duty is to protect people like me, not push them into doing—”

  “But, you’re forgetting, Dahl, I’m out of my jurisdiction,” Sam said, cutting him off. He took the toothpick from his lips and put it in his shirt pocket. “I’m going over to the hotel and renting two rooms, one for Hattie Odle and one for me. If you plan on trying to stop me, Dahl, you be waiting on the boardwalk when I bring her there.”

  Sam turned and walked away, down to the end of the bar where Fuller and his possemen stood watching. Before Sam came to a stop, Fuller turned from the bar with a look of contempt, saying to Red Booker, “I’ll be at the restaurant.” He left without giving Sam a glance. Red Booker chuckled as the colonel stepped out the door behind the two miners carrying Pierson Miegs between them. Tucker Miegs also followed, limping on his cane. Asa Dahl slammed his shotglass down onto the bar and he and Selectman Collins turned and left the saloon as well. “Let’s get out of here,” Dahl hissed, shooting the Ranger an angry glance.

  “You sure can kill a social gathering real quick,” Red Booker said to Sam Burrack. “Hell, that man just left his own saloon because of you!”

  Sam offered a thin smile. “I didn’t ask him to leave.”

  “That’s true,” said Red Booker, raising a hand to flag the bartender. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  “Much obliged,” said Sam.

  “Tell me something,” Booker asked Sam as the bartender poured a shotglass of whiskey. “Do you always have this much trouble getting along with townfolk?”

  “I’ll admit I do better out there,” said Sam, nodding toward the endless land beyond the saloon door. “It’s easier getting along with wolves and rattlesnakes than it is with some people.” He raised his whiskey. “Did your men find the body I left up along the trail?”

  “They never came back,” Booker said in a flat tone. “We heard some shots from a long way off. If those two don’t show up before long, I’ll figure they’re either dead or holed up in the hills against this weather. It looks like the Ganstons have some luck on their side. This snow will wipe out any trace of them. They’ll be wintering in Mexico.”

  “Maybe not,” said Sam. “That outlaw who tried to ambush me said the Ganstons would be headed back here to rob the bank.”

  Booker seemed to consider it for a second. “Naw, I doubt that, Ranger. They’re headed south.”

  Sam touched his fingertips to his hat brim. “Suit yourself. I just thought I oughta mention it.” He finished his drink and sat his empty glass on the bar.

  Chapter 10

  Snow stood a foot deep on the hill trail leading up into the cliff ruins. Beside the waning fire, Willie John tried to push himself up from the ground, but his trembling hands felt too weak and unsteady. He sank back onto his back and looked across the low flickering flames at Huey Sweeney. He wasn’t about to ask Sweeney for help. He couldn’t risk showing the extent of his wound or his weakness. “Where’s the kid?” he asked, trying to keep his voice level and strong.

  “Gone for some firewood,” said Sweeney, jerking his head toward the entrance of the overhang without taking his eyes off of Willie John. “He’ll be right back.” Sweeney rose into a crouch and moved closer around the fire, slowly, like a lesser wolf seeking permission from the pack leader. “Say, Willie, that wound still looks pretty fierce . . . still bleeding and all. I’m real concerned whether or not you’re going to make it.”

  “I’ll make it, Sweeney.” Willie spoke in a labored voice. He let his weak right hand lay on his pistol butt, although he doubted very much if he could have raised the big Colt right then if called upon. “You don’t have to concern yourself about me. Fact is, if you want to take those two new horses you brought in last evening and go . . . I’ll understand.”

  “Sure enough?” Sweeney seemed pleased. “You mean there’d be no hard feelings over it? We’d still be friends if ever we met up again? My, my, I appreciate that.”

  Willie John saw Sweeney’s mocking demeanor and only stared at him, waiting for his next move. Sweeney had grown bolder and bolder since he’d returned last evening with the two fresh horses and the bottles of rye.

  “You know . . .” said Sweeney, squinting as if in contemplation of something. “I’ve been wanting to ask you ever since you and the kid showed up. Is it true what everybody was saying? About how you had near ten thousand dollars squirreled away for your trip to Mexico?”

  “Do I look like a fool to you?” Willie John said, keeping up the pretense of being in control. He knew that if Sweeney made a move on him right now, it was all over. He was powerless to defend himself. “I know what all the men were saying . . . but it wasn’t true. How the hell would I have managed to keep ten thousand dollars, the way I spend money?” he offered a weak half smile.

  “That’s what I told myself at first,” said Huey Sweeney, not wanting to let the matter go. He tapped a finger to his forehead. “But then I got ta thinking about it. I never really saw you spend any money anywhere we went. I only heard you talk it afterwards. Never knew you to gamble much, never saw you squander anything on women. So I figured an Injun buck like you with no vices to speak of . . . hell, maybe you did save up that much over a period of time.”

  An Injun buck. There it was, Willie John thought. Yesterday he’d been Willie . . . now th
at he’d grown weaker and the rye had Sweeney feeling braver, whatever respect there might have been there was gone. Sweeney was testing him now. Seeing how far he could push, the lesser wolf readying its position, ready to take over whatever dark realm there was to command. “Call me that again, Sweeney,” Willie said in a level tone, forcing his hand to close around his pistol butt, “you won’t have to go around wondering whether or not I’ll blow your head off. You’ll know it for a fact.”

  There was a silence in which Willie John held Sweeney’s stare without a waver of an eye or a twitch of doubt. Huey Sweeney looked deep into Willie John’s cold, cagey eyes and could not read what was there. This could all be a bluff. But with a man like Willie John, you didn’t take that kind of chance . . . not yet. He needed to pull back now and check again later. He smiled apologetically. “Easy, Willie. I meant no harm. It just sort of slipped out, you know? The two of us never had a cross word in our lives, did we?”

  “No,” said Willie, “but this is a brand new day.”

  Sweeney chuckled. “That it is.” He eased his hand down to his side as he spoke, letting it get closer to his pistol butt, seeing what Willie would make of it. When he made a quick jerky move with his hand, he saw the look on Willie’s face harden even more, the Indian’s hand growing tighter on his holstered pistol until Huey Sweeney backed down and put his hand around the bottle at his side. “Dang it, Willie!” said Sweeney, “I just wanted to toss you this bottle of ole scat.”

  “Then toss it,” said Willie, his eyes, hand and expression still frozen. He felt his energy draining quickly, yet he managed to raise his free hand, knowing there was little chance of him catching the bottle, not even from four feet away.

  Huey Sweeney watched Willie’s eyes, still judging, still wondering, still unable to decide his odds. But before he raised the bottle to toss it over, a sound near the mouth of the overhang caused him to spin around with his pistol coming up, cocked and ready. Then he uncoiled and let out a breath, seeing Billy Odle standing with an armload of snow-streaked brush and downed tree limbs.

  “Damn it, boy!” said Huey Sweeney. “Let somebody know you’re coming . . . you’ll get your fool self killed that way.”

  Billy’s face turned stark white behind the red blotches of cold in his cheeks. “I’m—I’m sorry,” he said in a shaky voice, steam wafting from his mouth. He hurried forward and dropped the bundle beside the fire. Then he looked at Willie John. “Are you all right, Willie?”

  “Yeah, kid, I’m fine,” said Willie, his hand still on his pistol butt, his eyes still locked on Sweeney. “Never been better.” He nodded at the bottle in Sweeney’s hand, asking Billy Odle, “How about handing me that bottle of rye, kid . . . keep Huey from spilling it.”

  “Sure,” said Billy, yet he hesitated stepping closer, seeing the cocked pistol in Sweeney’s hand.

  “Don’t mind the pistol, kid,” said Willie John. “He’s fixin’ to put it away, right, Huey?” Willie John’s eyes were dark polished steel.

  Sweeney didn’t answer. Instead he uncocked the pistol and dropped it back into his holster. Ignoring Billy Odle’s outreached hand for the whiskey bottle, Sweeney placed the bottle on the ground, stood up and looked down at Willie John. “Think I’ll go take a look at the weather,” he said.

  “The snow’s halfway up to my knees and still falling,” Billy Odle said, trying to be helpful. “I had a hard time walking in it.”

  “Is that a fact,” said Sweeney, walking away. “Then I’ll be real careful.” At the opening of the cliff overhang, Sweeney said without looking back at Willie, “I need that money, Injun . . . think it over.”

  No sooner had Huey Sweeney walked outside into the morning gray, than Billy Odle turned to Willie John with a puzzled expression on his face. “Pay him no mind, Billy. The whiskey has him walking in circles.”

  Now that Sweeney was out of sight, Billy saw the effort it took for Willie John to sit up on his own. “And you’re not doing all right like you said, are you?”

  “No, Billy,” said Willie John, lying back down on the blanket, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. “I’m not all right. But I can’t let him see it. He’s ready to shoot me down and take off with the horses.”

  “How could he do something like that?” said Billy.

  “It’s easy for him,” said Willie John with a weak attempt at a smile. “He figures I’m not going to be around long anyway. Why’s he wasting time hanging around here?” He swallowed back a dry knot in his throat.

  “But you’ve been riding together, watching out for one another. I thought you two were friends. He should be doing everything he can to—”

  Willie John cut him off. “Listen to me. You’ve got a lot to learn about this world we live in . . . too bad I don’t have time to teach you.”

  “But I won’t let him hurt you, Willie. You just tell me, I’ll do whatever needs doing.” Billy drew back the corner of his ill-fitting coat and rested his palm on the pistol in his waist. Willie John saw the serious intent in the boy’s eyes and knew he would try something that foolish if only Willie said the word.

  “Thanks, Billy, but that’s not what I need you to do right now.” He clasped Billy’s forearm, looking up into his eyes. He knew there was no use trying to shoo the boy away. Billy was like a stray pup. He would only run in short circles and come right back. “What I need, Billy, is some medicine from town. I’m not going to pull through if I don’t beat this infection.” He gestured toward the bloody wound. “It’s not going to heal without medicine.”

  “You—you want me to ride to town? Get some medicine from the doctor?” Billy looked stunned. “I thought you couldn’t trust me enough to let me out of your sight?”

  “Forget me saying that, Billy. I trust you. Believe me, I trust you more than anybody in the world right now. Will you do this for me? It’ll take you the rest of the day and all night to get there. It’s going to be . . . a rough ride in the snow.”

  Billy’s chest swelled with pride at Willie’s words. “If that’s what you want, Willie, you bet I’ll do it. I’ll do it right now, no matter about the snow.” He started to rise up, but Willie caught his forearm.

  “Not so fast, kid,” said Willie. His hand curled around the butt of the pistol in Billy’s waist. “Don’t take this with you. It could get you in trouble if you run into any lawmen.”

  “But, Willie, I—”

  “Use your head, Billy. If you get yourself killed, how will I ever get that medicine? You won’t be needing this, anyway.” He drew the pistol from Billy’s waist, then glanced toward the front of the cliff overhang. “Now close your coat and flip this blanket over me. I can’t stay warm. One minute I’m burning up, the next I’m freezing. I really need that medicine, Billy.”

  “What do I ask for?” said Billy.

  “Do you speak Mexican, kid?”

  “No,” said Billy. “Not a lick.”

  Willie John seemed to consider it for a second, then he said, “Listen carefully, Billy. You’ll have to make up a story. Tell that doctor a neighbor sent you for something to treat an injured horse. Tell him the neighbor said the medicine you came for is haga creer . . . that nothing else will do. Can you say that?”

  "Haga creer,” said Billy, testing himself.

  “That’s right,” said Willie. “And be sure and say what I just told you to say.”

  “My neighbor said the medicine I want is haga creer,” Billy rehearsed aloud.

  “That’s fine, kid.” Willie John slumped on the blanket, allowing Billy to cover him with the loose corners. “Now get you a horse and get going. I’m counting on you.”

  “What is haga creer?” asked Billy. “Some kind of strong Mexican herb?”

  “Yep,” said Willie. “I never liked using it. But times like this, it might be the only thing that’ll help.”

  Huey Sweeney stepped back under the overhang just as Billy Odle stood up buttoning his coat, making ready for the ride. “Hey, where you going now, boy?” Sweeney
said. “I don’t like you out there traipsing around, making footprints all over hell.” Sweeney took a sidestep as if blocking Billy from the horses and the front entrance of the cave overhang.

  Before Billy Odle could answer, Willie John cut in saying, “Get out of his way, Sweeney, I’m sending him on an errand.”

  “What? And have him bring the law down on us? I don’t think so, Injun. That fever’s affected your mind.”

  “You told me to think about it, Sweeney. That’s what I’ve done. Now step aside . . . let him get a horse and get out of here. I need medicine.”

  Huey Sweeney ran it back and forth in his whiskey-blurred mind for a second until he realized what Willie John was doing. The Indian was buying the boy’s life with the money he had stashed. All right, Sweeney thought, he could go along with that. Evidently Willie John was in worse shape than he’d suspected. A while ago was nothing but a bluff. But now the Indian was ready to make a deal for the kid. “All right, boy,” said Sweeney, a thin nasty smile on his lips, “get mounted and get out of here.” He took a step closer to Willie John, noting how the Indian’s hands were quivering slightly in their weakness. “I’ll attend to our amigo here.”

  Billy could see something dark at work between the two of them, but he couldn’t put his finger on it, let alone begin to understand it. These were outlaws in the outlaw world—the world he wanted to be a part of. The only way that was going to happen was if he learned to do what he was told without questioning it. He hurried, throwing a saddle up atop one of the horses they’d taken from the Renfro corral. When the horse was readied, Billy led it to the front of the overhang and looked back at the two men. Sweeney stood facing Willie John with his feet spread shoulder-width apart. Billy Odle started to say something, but Willie John didn’t give him the chance. “Get going, Billy. Me and Sweeney need to talk.”