crawling worms in my gut.” I shrugged. “I don’t reckon I’m scared, but maybe I am. Anyhow, that’s what I think.”
The lawman nodded. “It’s all right to be scared. It’s the ability to swallow fear and step up to the fight that makes a man.”
“You scared, Bass?”
Reeves smiled. “Hell, boy, when I’m out here I’m scared all the time.”
“I won’t let you down, Bass,” I said, knowing how lame that sounded.
“I know you won’t, Dusty,” the lawman said. “If it comes to a fight, I reckon you’ll stand up just fine.”
He tossed away the dregs from his cup and rose to his feet. “Let’s ride, boy.”
I glanced into Reeves’ eyes at that moment . . . and saw with a shock they were guarded and wary. That look could have been caused by doubt, uncertainty, like he was having second thoughts about something . . . or somebody.
And that somebody could only be me.
We rode steadily west for a day and night, closing on Sandy Creek, where Reeves hoped Bully Yates and his outlaws were still camped.
The days grew hot as the sun climbed into the sky and sweat trickled from under my hat brim into my eyes, the salt making them sting, and I felt rivulets ooze down my back.
The heat did not seem to affect Reeves and he rode erect and dry in the saddle, his careful black eyes probing the way ahead, restlessly studying every hill and timber-choked arroyo of that wild and beautiful country.
On the morning of the second day, as the Wichita Mountains loomed in the distance, he pointed to the ruin of a sod cabin a short way off the trail, all that remained of the structure a couple of walls and a sagging doorway covered by a ragged canvas tacked to the top of the jamb.
“Let’s stop over there for a spell and get ready,” Reeves said. “I reckon we’re real close.”
Whoever had built this cabin, probably a sodbuster, had given up and moved on, or it had been destroyed by Indians. Whatever had happened, the sad ruin provided mute testimony to a vanished dream and now even the lingering shadows of the people who had once lived here were long gone from the place.
I swung out of the saddle, eased the girth on the buckskin, then squatted beside Reeves in the meager shade of a tumbled wall.
The lawman rolled a smoke and I did likewise, happy that my hands were not trembling.
“Dusty, we’re going to ride right into Yates’ camp,” Reeves said. “Nothing fancy, just straight up and honest.” He turned and looked at me, his eyes boring into mine. “You fine with that?”
I nodded. “I reckon.”
Reeves nodded, drew deep on his cigarette and studied its glowing tip, his face thoughtful. “Now maybe Bully doesn’t have the sand I think he has and will just throw up his hands. If that happens, though I doubt it will, the rest should be easy. But if he doesn’t show the white flag, what happens next will be almighty sudden. I’ve seen Bully Yates work, and he’ll make fancy moves and be powerful fast.”
He turned to me again. “It will be a close-in business, so go to your Colt. Don’t try to reload because you won’t have time. If there are men still standing after your short gun runs dry, only then go to your rifle. Don’t try head shots. Aim low for the belly. A bullet in the brisket will drop even the toughest hard case nine times out of ten. Don’t rush your fire, but even so, shoot just as quick as you can.” His eyes probed mine, like he was looking for an answer to a question he had yet to ask. “If you’re hit, don’t drop out of the fight. Hit or no, you must stand on your two feet and keep getting in your work.” Now he asked his question. “You understand what I’m telling you, boy?”
My mouth was suddenly parched and I took a quick swallow of coffee. Even then, my voice when I could finally form words was a feeble croak. “I understand what you’re saying, Bass.” I touched the side of my head. “I got it all wrote down in here.”
The lawman smiled. “You’ll do, Dusty.” He nodded, but only to himself. “Damn right.” He rose to his feet. “Now let’s go and get her done.”
We smelled wood smoke while we were still a fair ways from Yates’ camp. Reeves, as was his habit when he embarked on any desperate venture, was humming softly to himself, a kind of tuneless, monotonous chant he made up as he went along.
We rode through a brush-covered gully between two hills, our horses stepping carefully, and then into a narrow valley that doglegged off to our right. The slopes on either side of us were dotted here and there with post and shin oak and mesquite grew all over the flat.
The sun was directly above us, mercilessly hot, and the cloudless canopy of the sky was the color of washed-out blue denim. The legs of our horses made a swishing sound as they walked through the long grass and off to my left a bird called, called again, and then fell silent. My saddle creaked and the buckskin’s bit jangled when he tossed his head at flies and I constantly wiped the sweaty palm of my right hand on my pants.
Ahead of me, I saw Reeves slip the rawhide thong off the hammer of his Colt and I did the same. We reached the dogleg and swung north with the valley. The scent of smoke was stronger now, and I smelled bacon frying.
The valley ended on the south bank of Sandy Creek, the shallow stream’s entire length lined with cottonwoods and willows, a few scrubby elms raising their thin branches to the sky.
The wind was gusting, tossing the long grass, bringing with it the camp smells from somewhere off to our right.
Reeves turned in the saddle. “Close up, Dusty. I want you on my left if the shooting starts.”
I nodded and kneed my horse beside the lawman’s big sorrel. “I’ll do the talking,” Reeves said. “Bully Yates is a speechifying man, loves the sound of his own voice, so maybe I can sweet-talk him into surrendering.” His smile was thin. “But I wouldn’t count on it.”
We rode right into their camp before the six outlaws were even aware of our presence.
A tall man in a black-and-white cow-skin vest and black hat saw us first. His jaw and the armful of wood he was carrying dropped at the same time. “Bully!” he yelled. “We got comp’ny.”
Bully Yates was a huge man, big in the chest, shoulders and belly, and a cruel white scar stood out like a livid mark of Cain on his unshaven left cheek. The outlaw carefully set the pan of bacon he was frying away from the coals of the fire and rose slowly to his feet. He carried two guns, unusual at that time, worn butt forward in the holsters, their ivory handles yellowed with time and use.
The five other outlaws crowded close to Yates and I could detect no sign of friendliness in their faces or fear in their cold eyes either. They were all hard cases, well-armed, and like Reeves there didn’t seem to be any backup in them.
“Morning, Bully,” Reeves said, sitting easy and relaxed in the saddle, his voice calm and conversational.
“It’s gone morning,” Yates answered, his voice sullen.
“Well, good afternoon then,” Reeves said, smiling, as pleasant as you please.
“What do you want with us, Bass?” Yates asked, his eyes wary.
Reeves nodded. “That’s the way, Bully. Get down to brass tacks right away and to hell with the pleasant ries. I always say that my ownself.” With his left hand he slapped the pocket of his coat. “You know me, Bully. I’m a duly sworn officer of the law and I’ve got me a warrant for your arrest on the charges of murder and robbery. And I’ve got five more just like it for you others. I plan to take all of you to Fort Smith, where you will get a fair trial and later be hanged at Judge Parker’s convenience.”
“Big talk for a black man with a half-grown boy at his side. Hell, there’s six of us here.”
Reeves waved a hand in my direction. “This boy is my deputy and he’s already killed seven men in the line of duty. It would grieve me sore if’n you turned out to be number eight, Bully.”
“In a pig’s eye, he’s killed seven men. That boy ain’t hardly weaned yet.” Yates’ hard blue eyes found mine. “You ride on out of here now, boy. I got no quarrel with you.”
I shook my head at him. “If it’s all the same to you, Mr. Yates, I reckon I’ll stick.”
The outlaw shrugged. “Your funeral, boy.”
Reeves kneed his horse a couple of steps closer to Yates. “Come now, Bully. Give it to me straight. Will you
