High Wild Desert (2 page)

“
Cisco
Lang, sure, I know him,” she said, an unpleasant look coming to her face. “Running a saloon like the Desert Inn, I expect I know every worthless reptile who's ever trekked the high desert.” She gave a shrug. “But that's all right, I'll kindle the stove anyway. Even a reptile has to eat.”

Chapter 2

When the Ranger and Harvey Lang had finished digging three shallow graves in the hard ground of a weedy cemetery, they dragged Sheldon Rastatler's body over from the street and Bertrim Moore's body from the saloon and dropped Ernest Trulock's body down from his horse. Trulock's corpse had stiffened to the shape of a horseshoe, and Harvey Lang had to walk across it like a freshly unrolled rug to get it lying prone in its grave.

Once Trulock's body had been straightened, they laid the three bodies in their graves and filled the dirt in over them. When they were finished, Sam watched as Lang walked over to an older grave, placed his cuffed hands on an iron grave marker and started to rock it back and forth to loosen it.

“Stop it, Lang,” the Ranger said firmly.

Lang looked around, his hands still on the grave marker.

“What?” he said. “I'm only getting it for Shel. I thought he ought to at least have a marker.”

Sam recalled earlier how Lang had argued that they could roll all three bodies in and be done with it. Now he decided Rastatler needed a head marker?

“We'll make some markers out of wood after we eat,” he said, trying to be patient.

“This one will do,” Lang persisted.

“But it's not his. Leave it be,” Sam said, starting to suspect there was a trick in Lang's insistence somewhere.

Lang still kept hold of the marker.

“Shel wouldn't mind that it wasn't his,” he said. “Anyway, all it says is unknown, and the date.”

Sam just stared at him.

“The date will be wrong,” said Lang, “but Shel wouldn't mind that either. He never held firm to close record keeping.”

Sam took a breath; he remained patient and watchful. This was how it was going to be dealing with Lang, he decided.

“What I'm saying is, you're stealing it, Lang. Can't you understand that?” he said.

Lang gave a shrug and a crooked grin.

“Sure I can,” he said. “But this thing has been here over three years. Whoever's under it ain't going to miss it.”

Sam shook his head.

“Turn it loose,” he said. “If the man under it won't miss it being gone, Rastatler won't miss it either.”

“Whatever you say, Ranger,” Lang said, relenting and taking his hands from the grave marker. Sam watched him sidestep away from the older grave and walk back to the other side of Rastatler's fresh grave, where two shovels stood stuck in the dirt.

So that was it, Sam thought, watching without looking directly at Lang. It was going to be a long trek to Yuma; they might as well come to an understanding right here.

“You being a lawman,” Lang said quietly, “maybe you should say something over him?”

The Ranger took off his pearl gray sombrero and held it at his side, his rifle in the same hand.

“I can do that,” Sam replied.

Lang took off his flat-crowned frontiersman-style hat and held it in front of him.

Sam bowed his head slightly, yet stared straight at Lang across the small mounded grave.

“Our Father who art—” he started to say.

“Hold it, Ranger,” said Lang, cutting him off in prayer.

“What's wrong?” Sam asked.

“Ain't you going to close your eyes, out of respect for the Almighty?” said Lang, looking aghast.

“Yes, of course I will,” Sam said in an offhanded manner. “But you first.”

“Okay . . . ,” said Lang, “both of us at once.”

“Let's go,” Sam said. He watched as Lang shut his eyes. “Our Father, who art in heaven . . . ,” he said. As he spoke he took a silent step across the fresh dirt.

With his eyes closed, Lang reached his cuffed hands sidelong for the shovel. But as he grabbed the shovel handle and opened his eyes, all he saw was the butt of the Ranger's Winchester reach out and strike him a hard, sharp punch across the bridge of his nose. The world flashed purple-red; he staggered backward a step and crumbled to the ground.

“You peeped,” Sam said flatly.

Having started the prayer, he stepped back across the grave, bowed his head and finished the prayer, while Lang rolled back and forth half-conscious in the dirt. When Sam had finished and said amen
over the graves, he set his sombrero back atop his head and drew the string up under his chin. As he stepped around the grave to where Lang struggled to get back on his feet, Adele Simpson came from the saloon's rear door carrying two mugs of coffee. She handed the Ranger one of the thick coffee mugs and looked down at Lang, who held a hand cupped to his nose.

“I saw that, Ranger,” she said to Sam. “If I ask what it was about, are you going to tell me it's none of my business?”

“No, ma'am, I wouldn't,” Sam replied. “That would be rude of me.” With his coffee mug in hand and his Winchester cradled in his right arm, he reached his free hand down and helped Lang pull himself to his feet. “I was making sure my prisoner here understands that I'm not going to warn him every time I see he's about to pull a trick out of his sleeve.” He stared into Lang's dazed eyes. “I'll just let him go on with it—shut him down when the time comes.”

“You didn't have to break my damned nose,” Lang said behind his cupped hand.

“You're right,” Sam replied. “Next time I'll hit you in another spot.” He took the second mug of coffee from the woman and held it out to Lang. “Think it over while you drink this, decide if you're going to last all the way to Yuma or not.” After Lang accepted the mug, Sam let the rifle shift from the crook of his arm deftly back into his hand.

Lang untied a dusty blue bandana from around his neck and held it to his nose.

“You can't blame a man for trying at least
once
, Ranger,” he said into the wadded bandana. “It's only human nature.” He shrugged.

“Holding to that same line of thought,” the Ranger said, “it's only human nature to shoot a snake before it strikes you. Wouldn't you agree?” He tipped the rifle just enough for the barrel to aim at Lang's face.

“Not entirely . . . ,” Lang offered, his tone relenting, looking away, dusting the seat of his trousers with his free hand.

“Well . . . when you two get your differences settled,” Adele Simpson said, “there's food on the table. I set a pan of water and a towel out back—wash up first.” She turned back toward the rear door of the saloon.

“Obliged, ma'am,” Sam said as she walked away.

Sam looked over at the grave where they'd buried Bertrim Moore.

“You're sure Bertrim Moore here wasn't sided with Rastatler?” he asked.

“Naw, Moore was a loner, Ranger. You ought to know that much about him,” said Lang.

“I don't know a lot about him,” Sam admitted. “I know he worked for some cattle associations—hired his gun out to big ranches and railroads. Last I heard, he fell on hard times, took to bounty hunting, and didn't even do well at that.”

“Yeah, bounty,” Lang said, lowering the bandana from his nose. “Then I expect that ought to tell you what he's doing here.” He stared at the Ranger knowingly.

“There's no bounty reward on you or Sheldon Rastatler that I know of,” Sam said.

“That's right, but a reward is a reward, no matter where it comes from,” Lang said with the same look on his face.

Sam stared at him. Lang sniffed his red swollen nose, rewadded the bandana and held it back to his face.

“All right, Cisco, start making sense, or stop talking altogether,” Sam said.

“Okay, act like you don't know,” Lang said.

“Know what?” Sam said in a clipped tone.

“About the reward,” said Lang.

“What reward?” Sam said.

“Come on, Ranger, you know
what reward
,” Lang said.

“I can hit you again,” Sam warned.

“The reward on
you
, Ranger,” Lang said quickly, seeing the serious look in the Ranger's eyes.

“On
me
?” Sam said. “What are you talking about, Cisco?”

A bemused expression spread across Lang's face as he lowered the bandana from his nose once again.

“Hey, you don't know, do you?” he said.

Sam stared coldly at him.

“There's a reward on you, Ranger,” he said. “I just figured you knew about it and wasn't wanting to talk about it.”

“You figured wrong, Cisco,” Sam said quietly. “Whatever you know, spit it out.”

At the rear door, they both saw Adele Simpson look out at them with a hand on her hip, a large serving spoon in her hand.

“There's Miss Adele,” said Lang. “Want to talk about it while we eat?”

“No,” Sam said. “Tell me about it on the way to the kitchen.”

•   •   •

In a small kitchen inside the saloon, Sam sat across the table from Cisco Lang and ate in silence, keeping expressionless eyes on his prisoner as he pondered what Cisco had told him. When Adele stepped away from a small cookstove, she walked out front to check on the two crusty old miners she'd seen coming earlier. The two had wandered into the saloon and sat drinking at a corner table.

As soon as the woman left the kitchen, Sam swallowed a bite of flatbread and black beans and washed it down with a sip of coffee.

“How much is this reward, and how long have you known about it?” he asked Cisco Lang, determined to get more out of him than he had gotten on their way to the kitchen.

Spooning up a mouthful of beans, Lang ignored the cloth napkin beside his bowl and tapped his shirtsleeve to his lips.

“How much it is, I don't know. But it was near two months back I heard it,” Lang said, still chewing, his red nose bent and swollen, his eyes starting to blacken like a raccoon's. “I heard it from a few different people like Toy Johnson and Randall Carnes, to name two. They seemed interested in collecting it. Said they wanted to get to it before word got out up and down the Western Frontier.”

Sam considered Lang's words. The Western Frontier meant loosely anywhere from Texas to the western Canadian border.

“Those two are in jail down in Missouri, last I heard,” Sam said, searching for any holes in Lang's story, lest this be the setup for another trick of some sort.

Lang shrugged and spooned more beans.

“Toy Johnson's
in
jail so much and manages to break out so often,” he said, “it's hard for him to tell which side of the bars he wakes up on. But that's where I heard it.”

Sam watched him eat as he took another sip of coffee.

“And you never mentioned it to me because you figured I already knew and didn't want to talk about it?” he said.

“Take it or leave it, Ranger,” said Lang. He swallowed his food and added, “Can I be honest?”

“You can
try
,” Sam said dryly.

“Ha, that's funny,” Lang said with a sour expression. “The truth is, I would've bet a hundred dollars on a fellow named Oldham Coyle, if I'd thought he could find you.” He paused, then added, “And if I had a hundred dollars, that is. The El Paso sporting man, Silas Horn, has set odds at three to one in Coyle's favor, should the two of you ever throw down.”

“Oldham Coyle,” Sam said. “Robs trains and payrolls? Sometimes goes by Joe North?”

“Joe, James, Jack or Jonas,” said Lang. “He's partial to ‘J' names, I take it.”

“I know of him,” Sam said. “But he's not wanted in my jurisdiction.”

“But can he take you?” Lang asked. “That's the question.”

Sam refused to speculate. “I'm not a gunman, I'm a lawman,” he said. “I won't turn killing a man into a sporting event.”

“I'm just telling you what I know, the way you said to,” said Lang. “If Bert Moore is the first to come claiming the reward, I'd say the word has spread by now. You'll have to watch your backside night and day.”

Sam just stared at him, not about to tell him that he already watched his back night and day.

“All this because I shot Hugh Fenderson's nephew, him in the midst of robbing a bank?” Sam said, shaking his head a little at the particulars of it.

“Fenderson is a timber and cattle baron, Ranger,” said Lang. “He come up the hard way. Far as he's concerned, it's a smear on his family name if he lets this thing go. This reward is his way of showing the world he's too big to have a relative gunned down in the street, guilty or otherwise.”

Sam considered it. He pushed his empty tin plate away and sipped his coffee.

“As big as Fenderson is, seems like he'd just send some of his own hired men after me,” he said.

“Don't you suppose he
has
, Ranger?” said Lang. “But this way he can deny anything to do with it when he wants to, or brag about it in the right crowd when it suits him.” He grinned above his coffee mug. “Ain't that how a
powerful wealthy man
does it?”

Sam nodded. Lang was right. It was different when a wealthy man wanted revenge. A man like Hugh Fenderson could afford to keep his own hands clean and pay for someone else to bloody theirs, all the while avoiding any blame.