Bounty Guns (11 page)

“But, dammit, Tip, he wasn't! We saw him at the Bridle Bit!”

Tip grinned wolfishly. “You think he'll admit that? If he does, I'll haul him in on that charge.”

Ball shook his head dubiously.

“All I want to know,” Tip went on implacably, “is whether or not I keep this badge and you lock up Ben Bolling.”

“But you can't do it. They'll kill you.”

“That's my lookout. What about it?”

Ball sank into the chair. “Well, I can't stop you. Sure, I'll lock Ben up. Lord knows, even if he didn't kill Hagen he's done enough else to hold him for.”

“That's all I wanted to know,” Tip said and headed for the door.

Tip was at the feed stable saddling up when Lynn came in.

“The sheriff told me what you're going to do,” Lynn said. “It's insane, Tip!”

Tip straightened up slowly and rubbed the palms of his hands on his Levi's. “Who said it wasn't?”

“But you can't hope to get away with it, especially after last night.”

“I'll get away with it.”

Lynn stamped her foot in exasperation. “Tip, are you going to let that temper of yours kill you? It's kept you in trouble ever since you got here.”

Tip said patiently, “Sure. I've been hearin' that from you since the night I got in town. That night you wanted me to run. Then you didn't want me to put in that reward notice.” His voice got a little harder. “Well, I'm still alive.”

“You're lucky.”

“Not lucky. I won't be kicked around, that's all.”

His face was set in a stubborn way that told Lynn she might as well try to move a mountain as change him. She stepped aside and watched him saddle a second horse and then mount.

“Good luck,” she murmured, as he picked up the reins of the horse he was leading.

Tip rode out of town at a slow pace. He had lots of time, and he wanted it to be dark when he arrived at the Three B. He felt angry with Ball and angry with Lynn, but most of all, he was angry and disgusted with himself. He had muffed his chance with Hagen Shields, had failed to hold him, try him, convict him, and use him as an example of what the other feudists of Vermilion could expect. He had been tricked and not very skillfully, and this time he was resolved he would not be tricked again. Hagen Shields's killer last night had climbed up on the roof, passed a rope around one of the two-by-fours that braced the false front, slipped down the rope to the window, and, dangling by one hand, shot Hagen Shields. If anyone saw him, he had not yet come forward. That was another thing that graveled Tip. How could a man hang there in the light of the lantern above the main street of a busy town and not be seen? He was seen, of course, but whoever saw him was cowed enough to keep silent. Tip cursed softly to himself. After he got through with the Bollings and the Shieldses and found Blackie's killer, he'd show this town something, too. Thinking that, his mind went back to Blackie's killer. The thought was nagging, insistent, on his mind most of the time.

It was not a pleasant ride for Tip. When he arrived, just at dark, on the edge of the park that held the Three B, a combination of self-accusation, anger, and disgust had pushed his temper to the point of recklessness. Here he was with two horses, one for Ben Bolling, one for himself. And over there was Ben Bolling. All he had to do was get Ben on the spare horse and herd him to town.

Tip waited until dark, and then set across the park. The supper triangle clanged, the noise of it riding faintly across the night to him. Tip increased his pace, swinging in a circle that would bring him in by the corrals. He walked his horses, and they were soundless on the thick grass of the park floor.

There was a light in the joined cookshack and bunkhouse, Tip saw, as he approached. Achieving the cover of the corrals, he moved along them, along the barn, and up to the corner of the wagon shed, which was the closest building to the bunkhouse, perhaps seventy yards away. Leaving the horses there, he skirted the bunkhouse again, walking toward the house. It was dark, and after watching it awhile, he decided that it was empty, so he would be safe enough from that direction. Going back past his horse to the pole corral, he could see there were a dozen horses there. Two gates, one from the pasture and one from the yard, opened into the corral. Tip scouted about the buildings until he found a roll of wire in the blacksmith shop. This he took and wired each corral gate solidly in three places. It would not stop pursuit, but it would delay it some.

Then, making sure his gun was loaded, he started toward the cookshack. Pausing short of it, he looked in the window. A long table ran the length of the room, with an overhead kerosene lamp above. Ben Bolling sat at the head of the table, Jeff Bolling to his right. Murray Seth sat beside Jeff. Tip couldn't count the others. A Chinese cook in shirt sleeves circulated with the food.

Tip glanced at the kitchen door, saw it was open, and made for it. He stepped inside, lifted his gun, and walked past the table to the dining-room door. For a moment, nobody saw him. He walked into the room, putting his back to the wall, and said above the murmur of voices, “Ben Bolling, stand up!”

The talk died. Jeff Bolling tried to rise out of his seat and couldn't because the bench held him. Ben Bolling dropped his fork, and slowly his hands settled to the table and started to slide under.

Tip said, “Keep your hands on the table,” and edged his way along the wall. The eyes of seven men, wary and waiting for the chance they knew might come, followed Tip's course along the wall. Tip kept his eyes on Jeff and Ben Bolling and Murray Seth, figuring they would begin the play if it started.

Then Tip whipped out, “I said stand up, Bolling!”

Jeff Bolling's face was ugly, his eyes hot. He said, “Damn, you won't get away with this, Woodring!”

Ben Bolling still sat. Tip took a step forward, put his foot on Bolling's chair, and shoved. It went over sideways, dumping Ben Bolling on the floor.

“I said stand up!”

Jeff and Murray Seth rose at the same time, and Tip swiveled his gun to them.

“Sit down!”

They sank down on the bench again. They were cocked, waiting for a chance to go for their guns.

Bolling came to his feet. Tip had already seen that he was minus belt and gun. Bolling said furiously, “What do you want of me?”

“You're under arrest for the murder of Hagen Shields,” Tip said. “You're comin' with me to town.”

“That's a lie!” Bolling said, his voice choked with anger.

“Prove it to a jury,” Tip said. “Now back up toward that door.”

The cook, down the room, made a sudden dash for the kitchen. Tip snapped a shot at him, and he stopped dead in his tracks and turned to face Tip, his face a sick green. Jeff and Murray Seth leaped away from the table, tipping the bench over backward. The other two hands behind Murray came to their feet.

The silence was as thin as wire as Tip taunted, “Four shells left. Anybody want to make a try?”

Nobody answered, and Tip circled toward the door until he was in back of Ben Bolling. “Now back up!”

Jeff Bolling waited patiently, and Tip knew what for. In the back of his own mind, a small glimmer of doubt was born. He felt himself sweating. Was he going to make it? Every man in this room, once Tip had stepped out that door, would pile out after him. Four slugs wouldn't stop them, and his horses were seventy yards away.

Tip rammed his gun in Bolling's back and said to Jeff, “Anybody you see moving out there might be Ben. And if you kill him, I'll come back and get you.”

Grabbing Ben's collar, Tip hauled him back into the doorway, then, shoving him out into the yard, he raised his gun, shot out the light, and dodged out, just as a wild yell broke from Jeff. “Take the kitchen door!”

Tip swung on Ben, who was just coming up off his knees. He rammed his gun in Bolling's back and said, “Make for the wagon shed—and run!”

Bolling ran. Shots poured out of the cookshack door, and Tip could hear men running. The kitchen door crashed open, and more men poured out, all heading for the corral.

Tip realized now that he had been a fool to leave his horses in the path of these men, but it was too late to change it now. And he knew with certain conviction that he couldn't make his getaway riding through them.

Arrived at the place where his horses were tied, Tip said swiftly, “Untie those reins.”

Bolling did, while Tip slipped his lariat off the horn. Then viciously he swung the coiled rope across the rump of his chestnut. The horse stampeded out into the night, and Tip cut the other horse across the rump. He went off in another direction.

A man yelled, “There they go!” and fired at the horses. Tip, his gun in Bolling's back again, said, “Get in the wagon shed!”

Bolling hesitated for a moment, then opened the door, the hot smell of dust and grease and leather drifting out. Bolling tripped over a wagon tongue, and Tip shoved him against the wall, ramming the gun in his midriff. “You make a move and I'll let this off.”

“You wild damn fool!” Bolling whispered savagely. “You won't get away with it!”

Tip shoved the gun harder, and Bolling didn't speak. Tip could hear his labored breathing. Outside, men were yelling. Tip heard one pound past the shed, stop, and then yell wildly, “He's wired it.”

“Try the other gate!” Jeff Bolling shouted. The light from a lantern showed under the door and then vanished. Someone was cursing in a vicious, level monotone. Off by the cookshack, somebody was shooting.

Tip backed against the wall, his gun still in Bolling's side, and wondered if he would get away with it.

The crack under the door showed the lantern light again. Suddenly somebody wrenched the door open, and the lantern glow lighted up the shed. Tip had only the briefest glance at the interior, but he knew what had happened. A half-dozen saddles straddled a pole against the opposite wall, and these men had come for them.

Jeff Bolling, gun in one hand, preceded the man with the lantern into the shed. He heard Tip's movement, stopped short, wheeled, and saw Tip and Ben Bolling. Only now, Tip had Ben Bolling in front of him, the gun rammed in Bolling's back.

Jeff's eyes glinted like an animal's in that light. His gun was leveled at Ben.

“This is the payoff,” he said thickly. “Step out from behind him.”

“Back up,” Tip countered. “Damn you, back out of here or I'll shoot!”

Tip shoved Ben a step ahead of him, and Jeff backed up. Tip went on, and Jeff backed clear of the door and out into the yard, his eyes wild with murder.

Tip put his back against the side of the shed, hauling Ben close in front of him. Four riders, motionless and staring at him, all with guns drawn, watched Jeff Bolling for a signal.

Tip said in an iron voice, “Pull a horse out of there and saddle him, you with that lantern. Put it down!”

He shot once at the man's feet. The man leaped aside, swinging up his gun, and Jeff raised a hand. “Give him one,” Jeff said softly. The rider put down the lantern and backed into the corral gate. The horse was saddled and led out.

Jeff was watching, his gun leveled, and Tip listened intently for anyone approaching from around the corner of the wagon shed.

The rider led the horse over to Tip and then Tip said, his voice wicked with warning, “Back against the corral poles, the lot of you!”

“Hell with you!” Jeff Bolling cried. “Try to make it if you can!”

Tip shot again, and his slug whipped through Jeff's boot top and kicked dust against the lantern.

“I've got one shot left here, Bolling,” Tip said wickedly. “I'll give you two seconds to move.”

Jeff, cursing hysterically, backed away, and so did the others, until their backs were against the corral poles. This was going to break in a moment, Tip knew, and he would have to act fast.

He shoved Ben ahead of him, grabbed the reins of the horse, and turned him around. “Get up!” Tip ordered. “Leave that left stirrup free!”

The horse was between Tip and Jeff. Ben, cursing with rage, swung into the saddle. Tip put his left foot in the stirrup, grabbed the horn with his left hand, swung up, and with his free boot raked the horse's flank. The horse lunged forward with his double and lopsided burden, plunging for the corner of the woodshed. Tip snapped his last shot at the lantern, and saw it kick over and go out, just as Jeff yelled, “After him!”

They rounded the corner of the wagon shed. A man afoot, racing around the corner, was knocked spinning by the horse, and then they were in darkness.

Ben Bolling, who had counted Tip's shots, too, now swung his free arm at Tip. Tip lifted his gun, brought it down in across Bolling's head and shoved. Bolling slacked out of the saddle and fell. Tip heard him hit the ground with a grunt, then his thick voice rose in the cry, “Over here! Over here!”

Tip swung his right leg over the saddle now, just as the first shots from the wagon shed searched for him in the dark. He rounded the corner of the house now, crouched low over the horn, ramming fresh loads in his gun. Racing past the gallery, he flogged the horse with the reins, until the pony stretched out in a terrified run. Tip slipped out of the saddle then, hit the grass, fell, rolled, and came to a stop against the corner of the porch.

He rose, stumbled, caught himself, and ran for the shelter of the porch, flattening against the wall, just as three riders boiled past him. He heard one man yell, “That horse is windbroke! Ride him down!”

Tip hugged the wall, and five more riders cut around the corner, and then there was a silence.

Tip peered around the corner, saw nothing, and then ran back toward the wagon shed, his mind clouded with a fury that did not let him know that his leg was hurting. It was only when he fell and struggled up again that he knew he was hurt, and then he didn't care. Ben Bolling, as he had seen, was not among those six riders—and Ben Bolling was under arrest.