quarter, he thought grimly. He looked up at the sky, judging by the sun that it was about mid-afternoon, maybe earlier, maybe somewhere between two and three o’clock. He’d put his watch in his saddlebags for safekeeping. Some of the country he’d been crossing had been so rough and jumbled he’d expected the fillings to fall out of his teeth.
He sat, trying to figure out what to do. By his best calculations his locale was about seventy miles north of the Mexican border. The sign he’d struck as he’d come out of the last of the mountains had indicated he was close on to his quarry. If that was the case, then there was an excellent chance that the game he was hunting would be in the cabin.
But just how many of them there were, he could not say. Which was one of the reasons he wanted to get a look behind the cabin and see the number of horses there. Of course that might not necessarily tell him anything. There might be five horses behind the cabin, but that didn’t mean there’d be five men in the cabin. In fact Longarm felt pretty sure there wasn’t but one. But if it was the one he thought it was, then one was more than a handful.
He reckoned it to be Jack Shaw. And he half hoped it would be, while another part of him hoped that it wouldn’t be.
Jack Shaw was a former law officer gone bad. Longarm had known him for at least fifteen years, back when he, Longarm, was just getting comfortably settled into his role as a federal marshal and Jack Shaw was a man who specialized in pinning on a badge and cleaning up border towns. He’d become a legend, making things warm for outlaws in towns from Brownsville, Texas, clear on across New Mexico and up the border to Nogales, Arizona Territory, and on to Calixico, California. As far as Longarm was concerned, the Mexican border territory was about as bad as it got and to go in there as a town-tamer was seriously dangerous work. You had to be a hell of a hombre just to stay alive under such circumstances, much less hang and jail as many bandits as Jack Shaw had. Longarm had always wondered why a man would choose to work under such trying conditions. Jack Shaw had always said he simply liked it and it really wasn’t as dangerous as it appeared. But then had come faint rumors about this prisoner escaping or that outlaw vanishing from a jail, and about Jack Shaw having more money to spend than seemed right. Finally, after nine years on the job, Jack Shaw had shown his true colors. He’d robbed a bank in Del Rio, Texas, in the very town where he was marshal, and had escaped with better than twenty thousand dollars. After that had come a succession of robberies in towns where Jack had worked as a sheriff or town marshal. In some cases he had been identified; in others it had only been speculation that he had been involved. He was tough, he was daring, and he knew the ins and outs of both sides of the law. All in all he made a formidable adversary. Longarm could think of any number of men he’d rather go up against if the objective was to get out alive.
He could feel his horse shudder under him, and he knew he couldn’t stay put any longer. He wanted to get closer to the cabin and at the same time work around to the back. He urged his mount forward, feeling the pull of the packhorse behind. He rode obliquely, nearing the cabin but making one yard sideways for every yard forward. Finally he had the angle of the side and front wall facing him, and was just starting to see the posts of the corral behind the shack. He pressed forward. The distance between him and the cabin shortened. It came down from two hundred yards to one hundred, and then began to diminish so that he could see the scarred and weatherbeaten details of the shack. It had several windows, but they were small and not paned with glass. One or two had outside shutters, but they hung loose and askew, swaying just slightly with the very light breeze. There was a windmill just behind the cabin.
At a distance of about seventy-five yards Longarm was ready to conclude that the cabin was empty. He was able to see about half the corral, but he didn’t see any horses. Of course they might be bunched up against the back of the cabin, seeking what shade there was.
All of a sudden he heard a thunk. Immediately there followed the report of a gun that sounded like a rifle. Longarm felt his horse stumble, and he knew the horse had been hit and was going down. He began, moving swiftly, to get ready to dismount. As rapidly as he could he unwound the lead rope from the saddlehorn so that the pack animal would be free. In the same motion he drew his carbine out of the boot on the right side of his saddle. His eyes were already searching the ground ahead for cover as he felt his horse go to its knees. He heard the buzz of a bullet near his ear and then the sound of the gun. With his carbine in his right hand, he was just able to grab his canteen by its strap and step onto the ground as his horse, with a gurgle and a sigh, fell forward onto the sandy prairie.
Stopping and weaving, Longarm ran forward, frantically looking for cover of any kind. Ten yards further on he saw a little wash. It wasn’t much, no more than a little depression in the prairie floor some two feet deep by four feet wide by ten feet long. A little clump of greasewood clung to one end. Longarm lunged for the wash just as another bullet kicked up dust no more than a foot from his boot. He ran the last few yards and flung himself down, hugging the bottom of the wash as another bullet ripped through the air over his head.
For a moment he was content to lie still, doing his best to flatten himself out. He was lying almost lengthwise in the wash, with his head just slightly pointing toward the cabin. He’d managed to land behind a low fringe of the greasewood bushes, but there was a heavier thicket to his right. All of a sudden he realized he was still wearing his hat as another slug went whizzing just over his head. As deftly as he could, without raising so much as a shoulder blade, he eased his hat off and let it fall in the sandy, rocky clay of the wallow. Then, using the toes of his boots and his elbows, he worked himself along the edge of the wash until he’d reached the center of the greasewood bramble. The worthless plant had grown thick along the top part of the wash, a tribute to its ability to survive where nothing else could. At the base of the greasewood were little stalks of woody growth about an inch thick. They immediately curled up and onto themselves to form a tangled bramble. Sometime past it must have rained, allowing the plant to take good root and grow. Longarm could see it was starting to die, but he was grateful it had lasted long enough to give him what shelter it could.
When he thought he was in a good enough position, he lifted his head just enough to see over the edge of the wash and between the stalks of the greasewood. He seemed to be exactly at the corner of the cabin. He was facing one wall as much as he was facing the front of the little building. He studied the place closely, looking for a weakness. The cabin had been built of rocks, probably rocks that were handy nearby, and then chinked with adobe mud. There was no porch, and the roof might as well be called flat. As little as it rained in that country, there didn’t appear to be any need for a pitch that would allow the water to run off. As near as he could tell, the roof was made of tin.
He could see a good part of the corral and, yes, there was at least one horse in the back. All he could see was a tail and part of a rump.
But if his man was in there he’d be well supplied with horses, ready for the last dash to the border and to Mexico.
A voice suddenly called out, “That you, Custis?”
Longarm lifted his head just enough to answer back. In the dry, thin air of the high prairie, sound carried a great distance. He had only to raise his voice slightly. He said, “Yeah, it’s me. That you, Jack?”
“Yeah. How you been getting along?”
“Oh, pretty fair. How about you?”
