Killing Texas Bob Read online

  ‘‘Oh, no,’’ Price said with regret, raising a hand and waving it back and forth. ‘‘This is Teddy Ware and Norbert Block. They both know me.’’

  Frisco gave a dark chuckle as the coach began to slow to a halt. To the three men hidden from sight he said sidelong, ‘‘See, pards? I told yas this was going to be sweet as a wedding cake.’’

  ‘‘Whoaaa!’’ the stage driver, Norbert Block, shouted to the horses, pulling back hard on the traces and the long brake handle as the six big coach horses stopped six yards away.

  ‘‘Dang, Deputy!’’ the shotgun rider, Teddy Ware, called out. ‘‘We almost didn’t stop for you. What brings you out this far from town?’’

  Price seemed stuck for a reply. But Frisco called out, ‘‘We’re hunting a killer for Judge Bass, a fellow by the name of Texas Bob Krey.’’

  The two grizzled bearded stage men looked at one another. ‘‘Texas Bob, a killer?’’ said the driver. He looked at Price instead of Frisco Phil. ‘‘That’s a hard thing to believe, Deputy.’’

  ‘‘Hard but true,’’ said Frisco, sidling closer to Price in case Price did something to warn the stage men.

  The driver looked away from Price to Frisco Phil. ‘‘Don’t I know you? Ain’t you the one who slings whiskey at that pigsty in Sibley?’’

  ‘‘If you mean Vinten Kriek’s Rambling Dutchman,’’ said Frisco, ‘‘yeah, I used to. What of it?’’

  ‘‘Nothing of it,’’ the shotgun rider cut in, his sawed-off double-barrel in his fringe-gloved hand. ‘‘We’re just both wondering why you’re doing the talking is all.’’ He said to Price without taking his wary eyes off of Frisco Phil, ‘‘Cat got your tongue, Claude?’’

  ‘‘No,’’ Price said quickly, sounding almost startled by the question. ‘‘What Phil says is true. We’re hunting for Texas Bob. He shot Judge Bass’s brother, Davin, maybe killed a couple more, and burned down a saloon.’’

  ‘‘Burned a saloon in Sibley, huh?’’ The driver gave a sharp little grin. ‘‘That’s one down and thirty to go, far as I’m concerned.’’

  ‘‘Anyway, that’s why I stopped you,’’ said Price. His face was sick and nervous. ‘‘We want to know if you’ve seen any riders headed out across—’’

  ‘‘We’re going to have to search your stage,’’ Frisco called out, cutting Price off.

  ‘‘Search our stage?’’ said Ware. His finger slipped inside the trigger guard of the shotgun. ‘‘You must be a lunatic, bartender.’’ The shotgun rider began to rise up from his seat, his weapon coming up to his shoulder.

  ‘‘Pards!’’ Frisco called out over his shoulder, summoning the three riders hidden behind the large rock. As the three nudged their horses into sight, their guns drawn, cocked and pointed, Frisco demanded, ‘‘Drop the scattergun and sit your ass back down! Throw down the strongbox!’’

  But the shotgun rider would have none of it. ‘‘Price, you skunk!’’ he bellowed at the deputy. At the same time he swung the shotgun toward the other three men and fired both barrels. The impact of the double blasts angled down onto Carter Roby, hammering both horse and rider into the dirt. Ware, seeing that the two blasts were all he would get, shouted, ‘‘Go!’’ at the stunned driver.

  Block started to lash the traces against the six coach horses’ backs, but before the animals could make a lunge and get the heavy coach moving, a hail of pistol fire sliced through the two men and left them lying dead on the coach seat. Bolting to the coach, Frisco leapt up from his saddle onto the seat, grabbed the fallen reins and leaned back into them, drawing the frightened horses to a halt and holding them there until they settled.

  In the dirt, Roby’s big buckskin lay dead. But Roby had struggled to his feet, his chest pumping blood from countless buckshot holes, his face and forehead chewed and maimed beyond recognition. ‘‘Oh God, where’s my hat!’’ he shrieked, staggering and trembling. ‘‘Where’s my hat! My hat!’’

  ‘‘I got it,’’ said Cinder Kane, swinging down from his saddle. In one motion he picked up Roby’s buckshot-riddled hat from the dirt, held it in front of the blind, bloody face and fired two shots through it. ‘‘I didn’t think he’d ever shut up,’’ Kane said, looking down at Roby’s body lying across the dead buckskin.

  ‘‘Oh, Lord,’’ Price whispered, looking first at Roby, then at the two dead coachmen.

  Seated on his mount beside Price, Ty Shenlin reached out and held the deputy’s horse by its bridle, keeping Price from going anywhere.

  ‘‘He was as good as dead anyway, Deputy,’’ said Shenlin, giving a cruel grin. He nodded at the coachmen. ‘‘So was they, once they stopped to see what you wanted.’’

  The others grinned slyly. From atop the coach Frisco Phil said, ‘‘See how valuable you and that tin badge are in the right hands, Deputy? You’re going to be our sugar teat. We’re going to suck on you and that badge as long as we can.’’ He chuckled as he hefted a strongbox from atop the stage and heaved it to the ground.

  ‘‘I came out here to get Texas Bob,’’ Price protested. ‘‘I never counted on getting involved in something like this.’’

  ‘‘Shoot it open, pards,’’ said Frisco, nodding down at the iron strongbox. To Price he said, ‘‘Use your head, Deputy. The more stuff like this we pin on Texas Bob, the better it’s going to look on you when you bring him in shot full of holes.’’

  ‘‘That’s all well and good,’’ said Price, watching as the others cocked their guns and aimed at the strongbox, ‘‘but I didn’t see us getting any closer to Texas Bob.’’

  ‘‘Pay attention, Dep,’’ Frisco said, shortening Price’s official title to a mere nickname. ‘‘It’s all going to work out fine. Texas Bob is just one small splinter on a whole big board.’’

  Frisco and the men laughed, then fired a volley of shots at the strongbox.

  Chapter 8

  It took four volleys of shots before the battered brass Hadley lock fell open and dangled on the side of the strongbox. Fanning a thick cloud of gun smoke, Frisco Phil jumped down from atop the stage, walked over to the bullet-scarred container and flipped the heavy lid open.

  ‘‘If this baby was shooting back at us we’d all be dead,’’ Cinder Kane said cynically, reloading his smoking revolver. ‘‘I never seen a lock so hard to bust.’’

  ‘‘Whoo-eee!’’ As the three men gathered closer, Frisco picked up a thick bundle of money and shook it vigorously. ‘‘This will more than pay for any bullets you’ve wasted.’’ He threw the bundle to Kane, who caught it and hefted it on his palm.

  ‘‘It’ll help,’’ he grinned, tossing the bundle on to Shenlin.

  ‘‘A lot,’’ Ty Shenlin agreed.

  Price looked on expectantly. In spite of his position against robbing the stage, he stood ready to catch the bundle when Shenlin tossed it to him. But to his disappointment, he saw the hard-faced outlaw kiss the money and pitch it back to Frisco Phil.

  Seeing the look on Price’s face, Frisco said, ‘‘Look at ole Dep here. You’d think somebody spit in his whiskey. Don’t worry, Dep, you’re gonna get yours.’’ He grinned and added, ‘‘I’ll see to it everybody here gets what he deserves when the time comes. Right, pards?’’

  ‘‘It goes down good with me,’’ said Kane.

  ‘‘Me too,’’ said Shenlin. He tweaked his thumb and finger together. ‘‘So long as you cut me a little taste to pass across the bar and along to the ladies when we go through a town.’’

  ‘‘I’ve got you covered,’’ said Frisco. ‘‘Just remember this is only a start. There’s more coming.’’

  ‘‘Coming from where?’’ Kane asked.

  Before answering, Frisco said to Price, ‘‘Dep, go stick Roby and the stage men into the coach and give the horses a whack.’’

  Price couldn’t miss seeing that Frisco didn’t want to talk business in front of him. But he wasn’t going to mention it now. He realized he stood in a bad spot with these men. He’d have to work himself out of it carefully somehow,
if he wanted to stay alive. All this, he chastised himself, because he’d been jealous of the doves in Sibley showing favor to Texas Bob.

  On his way to shove the bodies into the coach, he heard Frisco Phil say to the other two, ‘‘Pards, I’m telling you, ole Dep and that badge of his will stop any stagecoach in these parts.’’

  ‘‘Yeah,’’ said Kane, giving a glance in Price’s direction, ‘‘so long as we don’t leave any living witnesses behind.’’

  ‘‘Is leaving living witnesses a problem for you?’’ Frisco asked.

  ‘‘Not as much as it is for them,’’ Kane chuckled. ‘‘I never cared much for living witnesses anyway.’’

  ‘‘All right then. Listen up,’’ said Frisco. His voice fell too low for the deputy to hear as he continued speaking to the other two.

  So be it, Price grumbled sullenly under his breath. He jerked the stagecoach doors open, dragged each of the three bloody bodies over in turn and pulled it up inside. Before he stepped down out of the stage he spotted a watch that had slipped out of Teddy Ware’s vest pocket. For years he had admired the watch, knowing that the other end of the fob was attached to the crooked trigger finger of a long-deceased California outlaw named Jeuto Vargas.

  Looking out first to make sure no one saw him, Price whispered, ‘‘Sorry, Teddy, but I ought to get something out of this deal.’’ He quickly snatched the finger out of the vest pocket and stuffed the fob, chain, watch and all into his trouser pocket. The others didn’t need to know about this, he told himself. Smoothing his trouser pocket and taking a deep breath, he walked to the rear end of the lead coach horse and gave the big animal a solid slap with his glove. ‘‘Hiiiyiii!’’ he shouted loudly, sending the coach rambling off along the trail in a fresh rise of dust.

  Hearing Price, and seeing the driverless coach pick up speed as it rolled away, Frisco Phil said to the other two, ‘‘Wait a minute.’’ He turned to Price and called out in a somber tone, ‘‘Dep, I hope you checked and made sure everybody was dead first.’’

  ‘‘Yep, of course I did,’’ Price lied, not wanting to look bad to the others.

  Frisco gave the other two a dubious look, then said to Price, ‘‘You cut their throats to make sure?’’

  ‘‘No, I didn’t,’’ said Price, seething, knowing Frisco was mocking him in front of Shenlin and Kane. ‘‘But they’re dead as dirt. No question about it.’’ He added smugly, ‘‘I can tell when a person’s dead or alive.’’

  ‘‘Oh, I see.’’ Giving the other two a guarded wink, Frisco said, ‘‘Hear that, pards? Dep here can tell if a person is dead or alive.’’ He stepped over menacingly close to Price and said, ‘‘Would you stake your life on it, Dep? Because this is no game for weak players. Let a man get away alive, and he’ll come back to reckon with you every time.’’

  ‘‘I said they’re dead, Frisco,’’ Price said firmly, not wanting to look small in front of these men. ‘‘If you don’t believe me let’s chase that stage down and you can check for yourself.’’

  Frisco gave him a harsh stare, but after a moment let himself chuckle under his breath. ‘‘All right, Dep. That’s what I like to hear—a man who knows his ground and stands it. If you say they’re dead, by thunder they’re dead.’’

  ‘‘What about this money, Frisco?’’ Kane called out, holding up a bundle of bills in either hand.

  ‘‘Feed-sack it,’’ said Frisco. He stepped over to his horse, jerked a feed sack from his saddlebags and tossed it to Kane and Shenlin. ‘‘Hurry it up. I want to get back to Sibley and let the good judge know what kind of hell Texas Bob is raising out here.’’ He grinned at Price. ‘‘What do you say, Dep?’’ Behind him Shenlin and Kane hurriedly stuffed the money into the feed sack and carried it to Frisco’s horse.

  ‘‘I say that’s pushing things,’’ Price replied. ‘‘If anything goes wrong we’re going to be—’’

  ‘‘Aw, come on, Dep,’’ said Price, cutting him off. ‘‘Why can’t you relax and take it easy? We’re riding a winning horse here.’’

  Watching the two other outlaws tie the feed sack behind Frisco’s saddle, Price settled himself, realizing that to be disagreeable with these three wasn’t a wise position for him to take right now. ‘‘You’re right, Frisco,’’ he said, tugging his hat onto his head. ‘‘I’ve been wearing this badge so long it’s starting to twist my mind up. Sure, let’s ride into Sibley. What’s the worst can happen? Nobody but us knows what’s gone on here, right?’’ He looked all around from face to face.

  ‘‘There you go, Dep,’’ said Frisco, grinning. ‘‘Now you’re showing me something.’’ As he spoke he walked sidelong to his horse and swung up into the saddle. ‘‘I thought I was going to have to pistol-whip you in front of our pards here to get your thinking straight.’’

  ‘‘My thinking is straight, fellows,’’ said Price. He stepped over to his horse, ignoring what he knew was an overbearing threat any way he looked at it. Swinging up into the saddle, he gigged his mount forward and reined it alongside Frisco. He knew the other two were going to form a half circle around him, keeping him well within their reach.

  Sheriff Mike Thorn rode up out of the shelter of the rock land and stared out across the rolling stretch of cactus and creosote swaying before him. From left to right, ragged balls of tumbleweed bounced and swirled and continued on, like apparitions blown into being on the raw wind. He’d had two days out of the wind. That was as much as he’d get for the time being.

  Thorn sighed, raised his collar and rode on, concentrating on the jagged purple hill line lying in the distance. On a calm day, with the right cayuse beneath him, this would have been a time for him to doze in the saddle and let the animal make the crossing on its own. Not today, though—not in this wind, he reminded himself, nudging the horse forward.

  But before he’d ridden a mile, he felt a rumble of hooves and saw the big stagecoach rise up from the earth before him in a windswept flurry of dust and weed, its canvas back loose and flapping sidelong as it barreled toward him. ‘‘Whoa, Jim!’’ he said to his horse, pulling it to a sliding halt for a moment while he scrutinized the matter. ‘‘What the blazes is a stage doing out here?’’ he said to himself.

  Knowing that any answer to his question would have to come from the stage, he gigged his horse forward, swinging out in a half circle to get out of the speeding coach’s path. Waving his hat to no avail, he watched the coach grow closer until he saw it wasn’t going to even slow down, let alone stop for him. ‘‘By thunder, you will stop!’’ he muttered with determination.

  He nailed his spurs to the horse’s sides and put the big animal into a full run. When he arrived full speed up alongside the coach he looked up through the dust and wind. Recognizing the driver, he shouted, ‘‘Teddy Ware, pull up! Pull up! Do you hear me?’’

  But upon seeing the seasoned old shotgun rider staring blankly ahead, his chest, face and hands black with blood, Thorn sped his horse’s pace up, pulled over close to the lead stage horse and crawled over onto it from his saddle. Feeling his hat blow away, he gathered the long traces to the lead team and lay back on them steadily until the winded horses slowed to a halt.

  ‘‘Lord, I don’t want no more of that!’’ Thorn said aloud, panting. He climbed down and ran his hand along his bare head. Hurrying back through the dusty wind, he didn’t bother calling out to the slumped driver. He knew Teddy Ware was in no shape to answer him. But once he’d climbed up into the driver’s seat and turned Ware toward him, he said to the half-conscious man, ‘‘Teddy! Where’s Norbert? What’s happened? Who did this?’’

  ‘‘He . . . he stole . . . my watch,’’ Ware rasped, fresh blood running down across the dried blood on his chest.

  ‘‘Who did, Teddy?’’ the sheriff asked urgently. ‘‘Who stole your watch? The man who robbed you? Who was it?’’

  ‘‘My watch . . .’’ he murmured in a trailing voice.

  ‘‘Who, Teddy! Who did this?’’ Thorn insisted, shaking the man as if it
would awaken him. Realizing the old shotgun driver had said his last words, Thorn eased him back into his seat and patted his dusty shoulder. ‘‘Don’t worry, Teddy. I’ll find out who did this.’’

  He saw a streak of blood where Ware had climbed from the stage to the driver’s seat. He set the brake, wrapped the traces around the long handle, then stepped down and looked inside. Wincing at the sight of Norbert Block’s body and the gory half-face of the dead outlaw, Carter Roby, he stepped back for a minute as if to prepare himself. Then he swung the stage door open and took a deep breath.

  Three hundred yards away on a sandy low rise, Frisco Phil’s Winchester rifle reached out and caught Thorn’s tumbling Stetson on the tip of its barrel. ‘‘So there’s the sheriff, and here’s his hat.’’ Frisco gave Shenlin and Kane a curious look, then turned a dark stare to Price, Thorn’s hat hanging on his rifle barrel. ‘‘You better tell me quick, Dep. How do you suppose that stage got headed in this direction—toward Sibley, without a driver turning it this way?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know, Frisco,’’ said Price, standing his ground, but shakily. ‘‘I can’t tell you what a loose team of horses is apt to do. Nobody can.’’

  Kane and Shenlin stared out at the stagecoach. ‘‘The question is, what are we going to do about this sheriff snooping around, maybe backtracking and figuring things out?’’

  ‘‘What do you say we ought to do, Dep?’’ Frisco asked coolly, sticking his rifle up high enough for the wind to lift the battered Stetson and send it skittering away.

  Price kept calm. ‘‘I say we circle wide of him and go on to Sibley. What can he say? He didn’t see us do anything.’’

  ‘‘Yeah, maybe,’’ said Frisco. ‘‘Or, how about this? We ride in, tell him we’re out here searching for Texas Bob, and feel him out, see if he thinks anything suspicious about us.’’

  ‘‘But no killing?’’ Price asked, as if looking for reassurance.

  Without answering him Frisco looked at the other two, grinned and said to Price, ‘‘You’re going to lead us in. He’ll trust his faithful deputy riding in, bringing a posse with him to help uphold the law. Right, pards?’’