Trouble Rides a Fast Horse--A Frontier G-Man Novel Page 5

  "Save it, Mister," Hackett hissed between clenched teeth. Then he blurted, "Get the hell out of my town!” He whirled, and stalked off.

  ****

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Kid

  Main Street was still crowded with throngs of people as Jack Clayton walked down the thoroughfare leading his black horse. After his talk with Sheriff Hackett, he had returned to Regret, saddled him and headed back into town hoping to find Ted Matson at the Blue Ox Saloon. He had stopped off at the nearest horse trough to give his friend a much needed drink after the strenuous race in the hot afternoon sun and then continued on into the center of town.

  As he approached the Blue Ox, he could see Kate Matson, Marci Matson and Andy Fane emerging from the saloon, climb into their buckboard with the sorrel and another brown horse tied behind it, and drove away. Andy Fane? At least he thought it was Andy. This man was dressed the same, but possibly Ted Matson might just look enough like Fane to be mistaken for him. After all, Clayton had not been certain that Fane was not the man he had been following. He certainly looked much like him. More than ever now, Jack needed to see what Ted Matson looked like. If he found him still in the Blue Ox, he would know it really was Andy Fane that had left town with the Matson's, but why would Andy Fane be with them? Was he just a fast worker? If Ted Matson was not still in the saloon, Clayton would have to ride out after the buckboard. He would use the pretense that he still wanted a job.

  There was no room to tie up at any of the hitch rails near the saloon so Jack tied Regret to a rail in front of the hardware store and continued on along the board sidewalk, his heels clacking against the wood.

  When he reached the Blue Ox, he paused a little to the side of the batwing doors to peer inside without being struck by the swinging doors if someone were to come through.

  It was noisier inside than it was it the street, if that could be possible. The sweaty odors of unwashed men and the sour smell of spilled liquor filled his nostrils. Faint strains of a tinny piano occasionally rose above the din of boisterous shouts and laughter. Clayton had to strain his eyes to peer into the gloom inside, in striking contrast to the bright sunlight outside. A thick fog of smoke and dust enshrouded the entire scene.

  Gradually as Clayton's eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he could make out the features of the people inside. Carefully and methodically, his eyes roamed around the room, checking out each and every person, looking for someone who might be Ted Matson. One by one he eliminated them until his eyes came to rest on a young blond haired man at a poker table in the far corner. The man was slouched back in his chair, hat pushed back on his head and holding five cards in his hand close to the vest. A half burned cigarette dangled loosely from his mocking lips. A short pile of chips were stacked in front of him and a considerable pot sat in the middle of the table. Three other men were in the game, but the black frocked man in the opposite chair definitely held most of the chips.

  The young man certainly bore a resemblance to Andy Fane. Same height, build and coloring, but his attitude was entirely different. They really didn't look alike in any other way, but Jack could see enough resemblance that he was justified in mistaking Andy Fane for the man he was trailing. But now there was no mistake. The man he now saw; he was sure, was the same one he had seen in Sand Flats and had since been pursuing. And he was probably Ted Matson.

  Clayton stepped inside and strode toward the table.

  "Hell, that's not luck you got, Dude," Clayton heard the kid say as he stepped up behind him and hooked his thumbs in his gun-belt, watching. "You got cheating skills. That's what you got."

  The gambler didn't look up. He merely pulled the pot into his pile. He'd been called a cheat before and would be called so again as long as he would not let himself be goaded into gunplay. He just ignored the kid.

  Frustration burned in the kid's eyes. His cigarette dropped from his lips as the kid stood up, crouched over the table. "You hear what I said, cheat?" the kid growled.

  The gambler still ignored him, stacking his chips. "Well, do you?" Matson repeated.

  Still no answer, no indication that the gambler acknowledged him at all. The kid straightened, his right hand splayed out close to the butt of his pistol.

  "He heard you, sonny," Clayton's calm slow drawl from behind echoed like a warning of impending disaster in the kid's ears. "And, so did I."

  The kid froze in place. His blue eyes shifted warily from side to side, processing what was happening. He felt he was being called out. A thin smile began to creep across his face, trying to hide the cold fear that was suddenly welling up inside of him. He turned slowly to face the G-Man.

  Color drained from his face as he turned to face Jack Clayton. Recognition was in the kid's eyes, but he forced a smirk. He had seen Clayton clear enough before to know he was here after him. Bluff it all the way! He told himself, but knew he was never really any good at it. That was why he could never win this stupid game. But what the hell, he had to try.

  "I wasn't talking to you, Mister," the kid said. "I don't give a damn what you heard. But if you want a little of this action, you can have it." The kid played it tough to the hilt.

  "But, I'm talking to you, Sonny." Ice in Clayton'svoice.

  "Don't call me Sonny," the kid shouted.

  "So what do I call you? Matson? Ted Matson?"

  The kid flustered. The gambler put in nonchalantly. "That's his name, Mister,"

  The kid whirled back drawing his Colt at the same time. Before Jack could stop him, Matson's pistol was already out and pointing at the gambler's face only inches away. The kid's hand shook uncontrollably. Fear was in his eyes and sweat was streaming down his face. However reckless the kid may be, Clayton was almost sure that this kid was not a killer at heart. Almost sure! He was going to gamble with the gambler's life. He stepped forward, reaching from behind, wrapping his left arm around the kid's chest, grabbing him tightly, simultaneously pressing the hard steel of his Colt's muzzle against the boy's temple.

  "Now hold it right there, son," Jack said quietly and calmly. The kid froze, startled with surprise. "You shoot that tinhorn, and I'll just have to shoot you. Comprende?" Jack pushed the muzzle harder against the boy's blond temple. "And I wouldn't want to do that.

  Your mother and sister wouldn't like that very much and I happen to like them. You should have thought about them before you got yourself into trouble."

  The kid's eyes flashed back and forth as he tried to absorb what was happening to him. Instinct or fear forced him to nod his head affirmatively. "Now, very slowly raise that pistol high enough for me to reach it. Careful now. Don't let it go off, whatever you do, don't let it go off,." Jack said.

  The kid's arm was still shaking. The menacing gun barrel waved back and forth and up and down. The gambler was still frozen in place, his arms lying flat on the table and his hands were pressed against the felt to control his tremble, his big black eyes looking up from under his bushy brows that now gleamed with sweat. His gaunt face was ashen, the blood having drained in fear.

  "Do as I say," Clayton repeated the warning. The kid had not made a move. "Now!" Jack eared the hammer back. It clicked its deadly message.

  The kid started to raise his pistol, slowly. When it had reached shoulder level, Clayton released his grasp around the boy's chest and pulled the gun free of the kid's hand, stepped back and pulled the boy around to face him..

  Tension seemed to break in a loud burst. The gambler relaxed quickly, letting his face fall on his arms on the table. The relief was overwhelming. The room which had gone silent during this episode, resumed its usual cacophony and the patrons went back to their drinking, gambling and general carousing.

  "I suppose you remember me?" Clayton said, his gun now at waist level covering young Matson. The kid didn't answer.

  "Let's go," the G-Man waved his gun barrel toward the doors.

  Clayton was well aware of the onlookers as he ushered Ted Matson across the floor to the batwings. He was particul
arly aware that three men at the bar looked on with keen interest. Beldon's hired guns; Burl Ryker, Rafe Carver and Pete Tanner.

  Once outside, Jack led his captive down the board sidewalk to where he had left Regret. Keeping his pistol aimed at young Matson, he untied the reins, swung into the saddle and said. "Where's your horse?"

  "What for?" the kid asked with surprise. "Aren't you taking me to jail?"

  "Not yet. I'm taking you home first. Now, where's your horse?"

  "It's the bay at the center of the hitch rack in front of the Blue Ox."

  Burl Ryker peered over the batwings watching the G-man and his prisoner ride out of town heading north. Taking the young whelp home, he thought to himself. A wry grin spread across his dark stubbled face.

  Further down the street, a dark lanky man stood in the shade of the hotel's false front. A stranger to town as many were this week; he was hardly noticeable in the crowd of milling pedestrians as he too watched the pair of riders pass by. He smiled to himself, flicked his almost finished cigarette into the dusty street and stepped on it as he strode to his waiting horse, swung into the saddle and rode out after them.

  ****

  CHAPTER NINE

  Return of a Badman

  Clayton and Ted Matson had ridden steadily and silently for about a mile, with the G-Man riding close on the left side and a little to the rear of Matson, when Clayton ordered Matson to rein up.

  "Now what?" the kid asked.

  "We're being followed," Jack said, scanning their back trail.

  "I don't see nobody." Matson scoffed.

  "That's the problem," Clayton mused. "Neither do I?" Then taking up the reins. "Let's go." And urged Regret forward, motioning the kid on.

  "Loco gent," Matson thought to himself and rode on.

  Back down the trail, the dark young rider had pulled up and guided his mount behind some bushes for cover, fully aware that the G-Man had detected a possible tail.

  Seeing his quarry ride on as the trail wound westward, he reasoned that if he cut across country toward the high country, he could come out ahead of them as they followed the trail and he could remain undetected.

  As Clayton and Ted Matson rode on, the man guided his pony out of the brush and gigged him forward into a gallop.

  Twenty minutes later Clayton and the kid rounded a bend in the trail. They didn't see the dark figure couching in the brush alongside the road until it was almost too late. A meager glint of sunlight on the gun metal barrel of a rifle protruding from the foliage was almost not enough warning to react.

  The cr-aa-ack of the rifle, belching flame and smoke broke the stillness of the late afternoon. A bullet whizzed through the crown of Clayton's black range hat, lifting it and flinging it back to hang down between his shoulders by the loosely tightened chin strap. Regret reared, came back down and thrashed about. Jack was reaching for his gun as the black settled. Ted Matson fought to bring the bay under control.

  "Hold it right there," A voice from the bush ordered. "I missed that time, but I won't again."

  Jack let his pistol slide back into his holster and raised his hands, still holding the reins.

  "Both of you," the man ordered. "Keep your hands up!" He stepped out from behind the bush into the trail. He kept his rifle steady.

  "Blackie Darrow!" the kid gasped.

  "That's right, Kid," Darrow stepped closer. A bandage showed across his forehead beneath his battered hat.

  "I figured, I left you for dead back down the trail," Clayton drawled.

  "Guess you figured wrong G-Man," then to Ted. "Good to see you again, Kid. I think you have something for me."

  "Yeah...yeah," the kid stammered, nervously. "I got your share waiting for you."

  "Share? Oh no, kid. No share. It's all mine."

  "But...but we're partners, right?" Matson still was no good at bluffing.

  "Wrong? You broke up our partnership when you ran out on me. You stole my money, boy and I don't like that." Darrow's words were slow and deliberate and cold as ice. "So, where's the money, boy?"

  "I,..I'll get it for you, don't worry."

  "I'm not the one that's worried, Kid. Just tell me where it is and I'll go get it."

  "I can't really describe it. I'll have to show you." Matson stalled for time, eyeing the muzzle of the rifle.

  "You afraid, I'll shoot you if you tell me?" Blackie chided. "Hell, you're my friend aren't you? Besides, I want to see the dough first. Suppose I blow you away before I find out that you lied. No. You're staying with me until I get it."

  "Now, kid," Blackie shifted the rifle slightly to the left, pointing more directly at Clayton. "Kick your nag away from the government man so I can get a clear shot." Then to Clayton, "You never should have meddled in this, Mister. And now your meddling days are over." He raised the rifle and eared back the hammer.

  Jack readied himself. If this was going to be his last, he would go down fighting. He swallowed hard and gritted his teeth. Darrow chuckled to himself as he brought the weapon to full height. His finger whitened as he pulled the trigger back, taking up the slack.

  It all happened fast, almost a blur, but to Blackie and Clayton it was as if time was nonexistent and everything played out in slow motion. Clayton threw himself from the saddle, drawing his Colt at the same time, firing without aim. Blackie increased pressure on the trigger and the weapon boomed; the lead projectile slicing the space where Clayton had been sitting in the saddle. He quickly jacked a round into the chamber and fired again as Clayton rolled out from under Regret's dancing hoofs. Dirt sprayed into his face where Darrow's bullet plowed into the ground just inches from him. Darrow had hurried his shot and missed as a distraction from down the trail interrupted him.

  Three riders came thundering around the bend in the trail. Blackie, instinctively whirled, firing wildly in their direction. The three riders separated and spread apart, bringing their Colts into play and returning fire. Blackie's attention was now split between the interlopers and Clayton. Better get the hell out of here! He fired wildly at the riders, then back to Clayton and missed. Clayton had rolled to a half sitting position and fired hastily at Darrow, who was now turning and running back into the brush. Again his shot went wild.

  In the same instant, Ted Matson seeing an opportunity for escape, took it. He kicked the bay forward, hoofs churning the trail bed and spraying the G-Man with dust. Jack raised his pistol to fire again at Darrow, but the kid had now ridden into the line of fire, shielding the fleeing outlaw.

  Jack held his fire. Then seeing Darrow had disappeared into the bush, he eased back on the hammer of his revolver. He then looked down the trail to see Ted Matson and his bay disappearing around the next bend. The kid would have to wait. He could still get Darrow. He pushed himself to his feet and started to run toward the bushes to pursue him.

  He had forgotten about the riders who had conveniently ridden into the fray. He had gone three or four strides, when his memory was refreshed with the reality of their presence. A pistol cracked and dust flew up in front of Clayton's boots as a bullet plowed into the earth. "Hold it right there, Clayton!" A heavy deep voice sounded. "One more step and it'll be your last."

  Jack's shoulders slouched in defeat. He raised his hands above his head and let his pistol dangle by the trigger guard on his finger. Darrow's gone. Matson's gone. Jack sighed and turned slowly to see his captors.

  He should have seen this coming, he told himself as he took in the sight of the three riders. They had ridden close to him now, separated into a semi-circle around him, their guns trained on him. The mirthful glee of victory was in the menacing eyes of Hank Beldon's gunmen: Burl Ryker, Rafe Carver, and Pete Tanner.

  "Thanks for the help," Jack said flippantly.

  "Help?" Ryker said. "We didn't come here to help you. Hell, we came here to kill you. Now, toss that iron."

  Jack let the pistol slip from his fingers. It thudded into the dust. "A little drastic over a couple a skirmishes and a race, isn't it?" Jack said.
r />   "My boys don't like being pushed around by no account drifters or any other galoots for that matter."

  "Let me have the honors, Burl," Rafe Carver put in.

  "Well, what about me?" Tanner interjected. "Those horses like to chopped me to bits when he tossed me in front of them. Seems like I should have a crack at him too."

  "Tell you what, boys," Ryker said. "I'll let you soften him up first." He grinned first at Clayton then back to his men.

  They took his meaning and slowly dismounted. Jack watched silently as they approached. He would not beg. He would not show fear. But as these two miscreants came at him, he knew he was in for a beating.

  ****

  CHAPTER TEN

  Prisoner in the Dark

  Blackness, complete darkness. Was that all it was after all? No heaven, no hell, just eternal darkness. Was this the dreaded death? No hope. No salvation. Just blackness and emptiness. No that couldn't be! He wouldn't let it be! His eyes were open, but he saw nothing. Only darkness. Then as realization seeped into his brain, the G-Man felt the pain in his midsection and the throb of his aching head and torture of back pain. He felt the thickness of his swollen lips. His hands and feet were numb and he couldn't move them. No, this was not death. He was alive. Alive to feel pain and torment.

  He now knew he was not dead. He remembered Carver and Tanner taking turns holding him while the other pounded him. He could remember Ryker's bellowing laugh. He remembered the excruciating pain of the blows before sinking into nothingness. Now as he began to regain consciousness, he remembered the pain and it was still with him but subsiding to numbness.

  He finally figured out that his hands were tied behind his back and his ankles were tied. He was lying face down on a wooden floor. His cheek could feel the splintering roughness of the floorboards. The smell of mildew filled his nostrils and the dusty air was hot and consuming. Sweat trickled off his brows into his swollen eyes. He felt a movement as something crawled next to him, then scurried away across the dark floor.