“Sure. Hadn’t you figured as much? Hell, a pissant like you could have lost ‘em by now! We’ve been over some rough ground in the last few days, boy. You mind when we crossed that ten-mile stretch of bare granite yesterday? Had to drop some spent cartridges along the way, pretending we’d been shooting birds for provisions. They know I pack.44-40 ammo, so…”
“But why, Gawd damn it? I thought your mission was to bring me in to Denver safe and sound!”
“I aim to. But I’m a peace officer, too. Can’t see my way to leave folks disturbing the peace and carrying on like wild men on federal range can I?”
“You mean you aim to arrest somebody riding with that posse of vigilantes?”
“Nope. If things go as I’ve Planned I aim to arrest the whole damn kit and caboodle!”
It was getting late when Longarm spied the red tunic of Sergeant Foster on the skyline, far up the other wall of the valley. The Mountie had others with him. One rider was too tall in the saddle to be anyone but Timberline. Another distant figure had to be the midget, Cedric Hanks. Longarm looked for anyone riding sidesaddle, but the little detective had apparently left Mabel behind. He counted a good dozen-and-a-half heads up there and the sunlight flashing on glass told him Foster was sweeping the valley floor with field glasses. He’d probably seen the dead horse down on the far side of the creek. He had to have seen the big black mushroom of oil smoke still rising behind them.
Longarm turned to the prisoner at his side and said, “Lie down behind this barricade and stay put. I’ll be too busy to keep more’n a corner of my eye on you and I get testy if folks interfere when I’m working.”
“Longarm, we are boxed in here like mice in a cracker barrel with the cat peering over the top!”
“Just do as you’re told and hush. They’re moving down, sort of slow. I’ll tell you what’s going on, so’s to rest your mind. Don’t you raise your fool head, though. I only aim to have my own to worry about!”
“What are they doing now, then?”
“What you’d expect. There’s only one trail down from the top, so they’re riding down in file, and slow. Likely having as much trouble with that shale as we did… yep, pony just slipped some, but its rider steadied it nicely. Looks like that redheaded Kim Stover. She sure sits a horse pretty.”
“Jehosaphat! Everybody from Crooked Lance is coming to pay us a call with guns, and all you can talk about is how pretty that redhead is!”
“Hell, she is pretty, ain’t she? I’d say Pop Wade must be laying for us with some of the others in Bitter Creek. Don’t see Slim Wilson. He’d have led another bunch along the tracks west of Thayer Junction, most likely. The big hoorahs are sticking with the Mountie. All except Captain Walthers. He’s with one of the other scouting parties. That’s good. I was wondering what he’d say about me gutting his walker.”
Longarm removed his Stetson and placed it on a rock atop his wall, peering through a loophole he’d left below the highest course of shale slabs. He moved the muzzle of his Winchester into position and levered a round into the chamber as the band of riders across the way reined in and began to dismount, just upslope from the dead horse. He nodded and said, “Good thinking. They see this wall in front of the smoke and have the range figured. Yep, I see some of ‘em’s fanning out, working the rocks for cover.”
“Longarm, we don’t have a chance here!”
“Sure we do. They daren’t come much closer. They’ll stay on the other side of the creek for now.”
The Mountie, Foster, approached on foot until he was well within range at the edge of the stream. He took off his hat and waved it, calling out, “I see you, Longarm! You’ve made a big mistake, Yank!”
Longarm didn’t answer.
“You can see that it’s eighteen to one! You want to parley or have you gone completely mad?”
Longarm called back, “What’s your deal, Foster?”
“Don’t be an idiot! You know I’m taking Cotton Younger back to Canada!”
“Do tell? speaking of idiots, I just saw one wearing a red coat! You really think the others will let you ride north with him, Foster?”
“Yes. We’ve made our own compromise. The people of Crooked Lance are only interested in the reward for Jesse James. They say the prisoner is mine, once we get a few facts out of him!”
“Sure he is. Why don’t you just move back out of range for a spell?”
“We’ve got you trapped in there, Longarm!”
Longarm didn’t answer. Foster wasn’t saying anything interesting and it was a far piece to holler.
A rifle suddenly squibbed from among the rocks across the way and Longarm’s hat flew off the wall as Foster spun on his heel and ran for cover, shouting, “Stop that, you damned fool!”
Longarm considered speeding him on his way with a round of his own, but it didn’t look like the Mountie could run much faster. The shot they’d put through the crown of his hat had sounded like a Henry deer-load, not a.30-30. Longarm marked the rock its smoke was drifting away from and intended to remember it. Timberline and the girl were behind that other big boulder to the left of it. Likely one of the hands had gotten silly. The midget, Hanks, was behind that low slab, and was almost certainly too slick to be taken in by the old hat trick.
Someone else fired from behind another rock, so Longarm bounced a slug off it to teach him some manners, moving to another loophole with his gun since the one he’d fired from proceeded to eat lead. Longarm counted and marked each of the smoke puffs as they fired at the place he’d just been. A woman’s voice was screaming at them to stop firing, but the prisoner at his side was spooked too badly to listen. He was suddenly up and running—running in a blind panic up the slope toward the sheer cliff of the amphitheater. Longarm yelled, “Hang it all! Get back here, you fool!” But it was too late. The handcuffed prisoner staggered, fell to his hands and knees, and rolled over. Then he was up again and running back to Longarm, eyes wide and mouth hanging open, in a rattle of small arms fire!
