The Cowboy MEGAPACK ®. Owen Wister
a proposition, and we took the cattle up the trail. Now Blanco and these men of his are afraid we’ll talk out of turn, if they let us live. This Stub Smith feller, here, ain’t nothin’ but what he says he is—a derned squatter lookin’ for a place to light.”
“For a man who claims to be a farmer, Mister Smith’s hands look mighty soft to me,” fat Rick Veale laughed.
“Blanco, these two renegades, Bull Mooney and Gus Lynn, have told you the truth,” the overall-clad man said harshly. “I can understand you and these three Rockin’ R renegades’ bein’ suspicious, naturally. You think the three of us meant to trap you cutthroats. But Mooney and Lynn haven’t any idea who I am.”
“Great jumpin’ Jupiter!” Long Sam Littlejohn gulped, smoky eyes goggling at the sturdy back of the gent in overalls.
The man who had told Bull Mooney and Gus Lynn his name was ‘Stub Smith’ was actually Joe Fry, deputy U. S. Marshal, working out of Austin. And of all the badge-men who hunted him, Long Sam Littlejohn had cause to dread Fry the most. Fry hounded Long Sam constantly, his pride rubbed raw because Littlejohn was the only “wanted” man he had ever gone after without success.
“Say, you don’t talk like you did when you drove up to Panther Spring in that wore-out wagon, feller.” Bull Mooney glared at Joe Fry. “Who are you?”
“I’m Joe Fry, deputy U. S. Marshal, Bull,” the stocky officer snorted. “1 trailed you and Gus all the way from Kansas, knowin’ that herd of cattle you galoots marketed up there had been gathered by this Blanco and his cutthroat pack. I figured to nab Blanco when you tried to turn the money over to him. And I figured the murderin’ rake hidin’ behind those white duds would be a long-shanked sinner named Long Sam Littlejohn.”
Bull Mooney and Gus Lynn were cursing Fry, their anger mounting as he ignored their faunching. And Long Sam Littlejohn was doing some cussing of his own. It was like Fry, Long Sam thought angrily, to accuse him of being El Diabolo Blanco. Fry started yelping Long Sam’s name every time a major crime was committed anywhere in Texas.
“Mooney, you and Gus Lynn shut up!” Sisco Denton barked sharply. “Blanco says maybe you’re telling the truth when you say you two didn’t whip us a deal with Fry, aimin’ to trap us fellers. But Blanco also says that us boys ain’t takin’ no chances. If you did have a deal cooked and we was fool enough to let you off, you’d tip our hands to the law. So get set to take pistol lead, you three.”
Sisco Denton and the white-clad bandit chieftain each drew twin pistols. They paced forward, and Denton started to nod the murder signal at Curly Hurd and Rick Veale. But the roar of the six-gun from the clearing caused him to duck violently. Sisco Denton sat down abruptly, his howl of terror knifing through the night.
“Stand your hands, buscaderos!” Long Sam bawled. “Blanco, I’ll drill you center if you move.”
Long Sam knew that he had made a mistake in singing out, for the moment he did, Curly Hurd and Rick Veale started shooting toward the sound of his voice, and a bullet kicked dirt in his face. He was rolling away from that when another bullet ripped through the brush close to his face. Long Sam swore and, at the risk of being killed, kept his head up and got his black-butted six-shooters into line.
Blanco made quickly for the thickets, where unquestionably there were saddle horses waiting. Long Sam lined his guns and let roll a thunderous volley, his smoky eyes glinting as Blanco’s white figure spilled to the ground. He heard a high, thin wail and swung his smoking guns, hunting Sisco Denton, Curly Hurd and Rick Veale. “The dirty devils,” Long Sam growled, for Bull Mooney and Gus Lynn were sprawled there on the lip of the grave, the limp way they were huddled telling Long Sam what had happened. Joe Fry was nowhere in sight, but Long Sam had a feeling that the stocky deputy was down in the grave.
* * * *
The gaunt outlaw reared up, the bucking guns in his bony hands targeted on three dark shadows skittering towards the thickets where Blanco had evidently crawled after hitting the ground. Long Sam saw Curly Hurd sprawl suddenly, and fat Rick Veale was knocked off his feet just as he hit the edge of the brush. Then the guns in Long Sam’s hands clicked on empty shells, and he swore through locked teeth as he watched Sisco Denton go into the brush like a coyote-chased cottontail.
Long Sam reloaded his gun, but waited in the black shadows, knowing that to venture out was to invite a bullet from the brush across the clearing. He heard a man cursing over there, and the snort and stamp of uneasy horses. Then riders were heading southward, three or four of them, the gaunt outlaw judged from the sounds.
Long Sam moved into the clearing on his stomach, worming his way along cautiously. He was within a pace of the open grave when he heard Joe Fry grunting and cussing and moving around. The sounds that came up out of the grave sent a chill down Long Sam’s spine.
“You hit, Joe?” he called.
“You crane-legged imitation of a human bein’, get down here and cut me loose,” Fry’s harsh voice barked. “I had sense enough to jump in this hole, when that first gun popped. Who was doin’ that shootin’, Sam?”
“Who do you think jumped that bunch when you were the width of a gnat’s ear from Boothill, runt?” Long Sam snorted.
“Allright, so I’m properly impressed,” Fry snorted. “Also, noose-bait, I’m puzzled over why you tried to save my hide. Or did you just have a peeve at the rest of your murderin’ bunch?”
“Quit that kind of talk, or I’ll pick up one of these shovels and start wheelin’ dirt in on you,” Long Sam growled.
Fry sputtered angrily and began threshing around, but Long Sam, ignoring him, crawled around to the far side of the grave. Before the fire had died out, he had marked the location of two pairs of saddlebags that had been lying there. He found them now and grinned as he gathered them up. From each of the four pouches he took a small, paper-wrapped bundle, and the way those bundles gave to his grip widened the grin on his face.
“Forty thousand, in cash foldin’ money,” he chortled. “Down yonder in South America, a Yankee with that much coin would sure be settin’ pretty.”
“Sam!” Joe Fry’s voice came up out of the pit. “Hey, where are you, Littlejohn?”
Long Sam stuffed the pockets inside his shirt, excitement making his fingers tremble a little. He buttoned the shirt very carefully, then crawled back to the edge of the grave.
“Stand up and turn your back to me, Joe,” he said gruffly. “I’ll reach down and cut your wrists loose.”
“How many of those murderin’ devils did you kill, Sam?” Fry asked and Long Sam thought there was something mocking in his voice.
“I didn’t kill any of ’em,” the outlaw retorted. “I hit Blanco, Curly Hurd and Rick Veale, but don’t know how hard. I think all four of ’em got away.”
“Just as I thought,” Fry snorted, stepping back as Long Sam finished slicing through the ropes on his wrists.
“What do you mean by sayin’ ‘just as I thought,’ Joe?” the outlaw asked.
“You have no trouble killin’ honest men when you line your guns on ’em,” Fry sneered. “But when you open up on that bunch, you manage to miss every shot. Who do you think you’re kiddin’, you long-shanked hellion?”
Some sixth sense warned Long Sam. He jerked his arms out of the pit, and was rearing up when the rock hit him a glancing blow along the side of the head. He saw lights pinwheel before his eyes, and for it moment his muscles went slack, causing him to pitch back to the edge of the grave. Joe Fry’s sturdy arms locked around his neck, and the deputy’s growl of triumph was harsh in the half-stunned outlaw’s ears as Fry heaved mightily, trying to yank him into the grave.
Long Sam dropped the stock knife he had used to sever Fry’s bonds, drove a bony fist into the deputy’s face, then heaved back. Fry’s hold slipped and he cursed wildly as Long Sam reared back, squatting above the