Trigger Gospel (26 page)

The details of what lay before them had been talked over at length. Each knew what was expected of him. Bill's plans were ingenious enough to promise success. Latch, Bitter Root, Scotty and Moffet, who were not so well-known in Bowie, were to swing around town and come in from the north. The others would cross the Rock Island tracks and come in from the south. They were to meet in front of the bank. There they would find Cherokee's wagon drawn up to the curb. Their rifles would be in the wagon, under the hay. The Kid himself would be perched on a stool at the counter of the little restaurant next door to the bank, ready to go into action at the first sign of trouble.

Bill had assigned each to a position best calculated to cover the actual hold-up. He, Latch and Bitter Root were to go into the bank.

He ran over it again as they waited, although there was no need of it.

“Yuh want to watch the upper windows in the hotel,” he warned. “If they open up on us from there yuh got to stop 'em.”

“We will,” the Kid assured him. “We don't want nothin' to go wrong on what may be our last job—” His voice had a hoarse croak.

“Why damn yore red hide anyway!” Bitter Root screeched at him. “What do yuh mean crossin' our luck by sayin' anythin' like that?”

“Aw don't set yourself afire,” the Kid muttered. “You're takin' me the wrong way. I was thinkin' of what Bill told us about pullin' out for old Mexico.” To himself he added: “He's goin' a lot farther than Mexico this trip.”

At five minutes past nine Bill told Latch he could be moving.

“Just take it easy,” he said. “You'll see us crossin' the tracks. Time yourselves then so we land in front of the bank together. We'll leave here in ten minutes.”

The four men rode away, holding their ponies to a jog. Bill held his watch in his hand. Latch, Flash, Scotty and Bitter Root could be seen until they swung around some Mexican shacks at the edge of town.

Bill put away his watch and spoke to Cherokee.

“You can git your team started, Kid. And don't look back for us. We'll be right behind yuh. Just keep the mules down to a walk.”

They gave Cherokee a start of several hundred yards.

On coming out of the cemetery they caught sight of him again, moving along the road that ran from Bowie to Kingfisher. It was deserted, which was unusual at that time of the morning.

“Gittin' a break,” Link grunted with satisfaction.

“It looks that-a-way,” Bill admitted. There was a reservation in his tone. From the direction of the depot came the long-drawn wail of a locomotive whistle. For some reason it sent a shiver down his spine. “The Guthrie train is just gittin' in,” he observed.

Presently they saw the hotel bus turn into the road from the depot and head for town.

“Old Wash seems to be in a hurry this mornin',” Bill remarked thoughtfully. “He's whippin' up his team.”

“That gits them out of the way for us,” said Luther. He sighed heavily. “Everythin' is just as it used to be…. It sure looks good.”

“Don't git switched off into anythin' like that,” Bill said sharply. “Keep your mind on what's ahead of us. I can see Latch and them movin' our way now. This is workin' out just as I figgered.”

They knew they could not go far beyond the tracks without being recognized. A lot could happen in those three blocks between the crossing and the bank.

“We better close up a little on the Kid,” Bill advised as soon as they had put the railroad behind them. Glancing ahead he saw two men stare at them from in front of a barbershop, and then hurry inside.

“They got us that time,” Link rasped. “One of 'em was Joe Curtain. He'd know us in hell.”

Bill did not answer. A block-and-a-half down the street a man had rushed out of the bank and leaped to his saddle. He was riding toward them now at a driving gallop.

Even at first glance there was something familiar about the rider. A few seconds later Bill recognized him.

“Good Lord,” he groaned, “it's Paint Johnson! … What's he buttin' into this for?”

Before anyone could answer him, Paint yanked his horse to its heels in a slithering stop that forced the Kid to pull his team to the side of the road.

“Bill, turn around!” he yelled, his face bloodless in his excitement. “Get out of here as fast as you can!”

“You keep out of this!” Bill barked at him. “You don't belong in this play! I got no time to talk to yuh now!”

“You got to listen to me I” Paint insisted. “YouVe been framed!”

“What?” Without another word Bill slid to the ground and reached for his rifle under the hay. He couldn't find it. Not a gun was there. As he stood there helpless with consternation for a moment Cherokee lashed his mules into a run. “Paint—who did it?” the red-haired one finally was able to ask.

“That rat there for one!” Paint cried, jerking his head in the direction of the fleeing Cherokee.

“So he
meant
this was our last job; Bitter Root didn't misunderstand him a bit!” The thought seared its way through Bill's brain. That Cherokee must have dumped the rifles as he drove through the cemetery was not important now. To stop him—to end his crookedness forever—that was what remained to be done.

Cherokee had thrown himself flat on the seat, knowing his life hung by a thread. Bill's first shot straightened him up. In a desperate effort to save himself, the Kid leaped down, hoping to dart in between the buildings. He was too late. He was dead when his feet hit the ground.

Paint did not have to tell them that Heck Short and five deputy marshals were in the bank; that across the way Kin Lamb had a man posted at every window, for as Cherokee went down a withering blast of gunfire swept the street. Latch, Flash, Scotty and Bitter Root were still a few yards from the bank. They saw Flash pitch out of his saddle as the first shots rang out.

Hard on the heels of them, Heck and his Guthrie men swarmed out of the bank, their guns smoking. Latch, Scotty and Bitter Root, caught without rifles, could only whirl their horses and ride for their lives. Whether they made it or not, Bill and the others could not tell.

“We got to be goin' ourselves!” Paint was urging. His plea finally registered on Little Bill's mind.

“Yeh, we got to be goin'.” The voice was hardly recognizable as his own. He glared fiercely at Paint. “You git off the street before yuh git mowed down! Yuh ain't goin' with us!”

“Yes, I am! They saw me stop you! They know I tipped you off!”

It was true. And the pity of it! Thought of Martha flashed in Bill's mind. How easy it was for the law to get a grudge against a man!

“All right, fan your broncs!” he cried.

“We ain't got a chance!” Luther groaned. “They can mow us down without ever gittin' in range of our six-guns 1”

They were riding furiously. Behind them, bullets began to kick up familiar puffs of dust. Ahead of them, they saw Fate turn another card against them, as a slow-moving freight rolled out of the Bowie yards and straddled the road.

“That's our finish!” Link raged.

“Not yet!” Bill shouted back. “That train will save our lives if we can ride around it! Follow me!”

Dangerous though the going was for their horses, they raced alongside the moving freight with speed unabated. A veritable hail of slugs was whining about their ears and slapping into the sides of the cars.

In some way they survived it until they were halfway down the length of the train. Luther was the first to be hit. He weathered it and rode on. A few seconds later Link got it.

Out of the corner of his eye Bill saw him grab his saddle horn.

“Did they git yuh bad, Link?”

Link did not answer. His hands had dropped and he was slumping forward. Bill caught him or he would have fallen.

“You can't do nothin' for him!” Luther cried. “He's gone!”

Still Bill hung back, vainly holding on to Link.

“Bill, you're throwing your life away!” Paint pleaded. “I tell you he's gone!”

Reluctantly Bill let go. Without looking back, he rode on. This might be the end for Luther and Paint. He told himself it must not be the end for him. He still had his score to settle with Beaudry.

It had taken them only a matter of several minutes to circle around the train. It had seemed a lifetime. Now that they had the freight between themselves and Short's posse they were safe temporarily. The train began to gather speed, but it carried them well out of Bowie before they turned off to the west.

The Strip lay ahead of them, but they knew better than to believe they would be safe, once they reached it. Heck had them on the run now, and he would hang on until he climbed the very steps of Black Grocery.

“That'll be the first place he heads for,” Bill brooded. A curtain of fire seemed to burn in his brain. Every few seconds he glanced at his brother. Luther caught him at it and read his thought.

“No gittin' over this, Bill,” he said. “They got me through the lungs. I can make it as far as the Grocery though and give Maverick a chance to pull out. You and Paint better start headin' for the Canadian.”

“We'll pull up when we git to the Meadows,” Bill answered stonily. “I want to talk to Paint.”

“I
T AIN'T
any mystery about how I tumbled to this business,” Paint volunteered. “Lytell owed me some money. I needed it, so I went down to get it. Knowin' Lytell, I figured I might have some trouble collectin'. For that reason I thought it might be wise to look things over before I rode up to the house. That's exactly what I was doin' when I saw Cherokee step out of the kitchen with Lytell. The Kid got away in a hurry, and I could tell easy enough that he was mighty anxious not to be seen.”

“When was this?” Bill demanded, his eyes blazing.

“It was two days ago. Naturally I asked myself what the Kid was doin' there—knowin' he was ridin' with your bunch. My first hunch was to get in touch with you —”

“If you only had, Paint!” the red-haired muttered bitterly.

“If I didn't it was because I settled down to watch the
2
-Bar-O house. I couldn't believe Cherokee had come there just to see Lytell, and early the next mornin' I proved it, for after the men rode off for the day's work, there was Cash Beaudry, sunnin' himself on the back steps I”

Bill's mouth fell open in astonishment and he could only stare speechlessly at Paint for a moment.

Luther lifted a whitening face.

“That makes it easier for me, Bill,” he murmured. “Yuh know where he is now. I'll go on to the Grocery, as I said. I couldn't be any help to yuh. I know yuh can handle him alone.”

“Wait … there's more to this, Luther. Let Paint finish.”

“I didn't know just what to do then,” Paint confessed. “I thought Beaudry might pull away as Cherokee had done. I made up my mind I'd follow him if he did. But he stayed there until late afternoon. A man rode in then. He was a stranger to me. It wasn't but a few minutes before Lytell and Beaudry saddled their horses.”

“Which way did they go?”

“They headed north, Bill. I followed 'em for hours. When they crossed the Cimarron I took it for granted that they were makin' for Bowie … I was both right and wrong about that.”

“What do you mean?” Bill whipped out. “Did yuh lose sight of 'em ?”

Paint shook his head.

“Here's what happened: Lytell and Beaudry got their heads together for a minute or two. Lytell went on then; Beaudry pulled up in the brakes. It was plain enough to me that he was to wait there for Lytell.”

“Yuh think he's there now?” Little Bill's voice was harsh with eagerness.

“I've no reason to think he ain't,” Paint answered. “I can understand the whole deal. Lytell was in Bowie last night. It was him that tipped off the sheriff.”

“No doubt of it,” Bill sighed heavily. “I always fig-gered that Cherokee would lead me to Beaudry, but I never expected it to be this-a-way. … If I'd only known!”