Part 5 (1/2)
”I told you to shut up, Franklin. Less'n you wanna be one of 'em.” Speares poked his rifle barrel into Yakima's back, prodding him forward.
As Yakima began moving toward the jailhouse, at the east end of the street, he stared ahead at the chaparral-covered hills beyond the town. The sun had not yet risen, but there was enough gray light that he could see his black stallion, not much more than a slim shadow from this distance of three hundred yards, crest a low hill stippled with sage and saguaros and disappear down the other side.
His stomach contracted anxiously, and he glanced over his left shoulder at Speares. The man was too far away to attempt a kick. Even with Yakima's finely honed abilities, he would only buy himself a bullet. The banker followed at a distance, looking around at the carnage, lower jaw hanging, his gray muttonchops glowing in the early morning light.
Yakima would bide his time, find another way out from under the sheriff's thumb. . . .
As Yakima approached the jailhouse, the banker strode up quickly behind Speares, his shoes grinding dirt and gravel, his voice shrill. He held his black bowler in one hand, revealing the pink crown of his head. ”They got the gold, Speares. Every d.a.m.n coin! What the h.e.l.l are you going to do about this?”
Speares stopped and wheeled toward the banker, keeping the Winchester aimed at Yakima, who stopped before the jailhouse's closed door and turned halfway around.
”I'm gonna throw this d.a.m.n half-breed in the slammer, and then I'm gonna gather a posse,” Speares said tightly. ”There ain't much more I can can do, now, is there? Less'n you want me to sprout wings and do, now, is there? Less'n you want me to sprout wings and fly fly after 'em.” after 'em.”
He glanced across the street. The liveryman, Suggs, poked his head out the livery barn's doors, a wary expression on his face, his hair still mussed from sleep. Shouting, jerking his head back toward Yakima standing before the closed jailhouse door, Speares ordered Suggs to round up every man in town who could shoot halfway straight.
”Have them meet me, mounted and with a couple days' trail provisions, in front of my office in one hour.”
The liveryman looked to his left. A man stood before Stendahl's Tonsorial Parlor in a faded red robe, night sock, and slippers, the parlor's bullet-pocked door standing partially open behind him. He shuttled his eyes between Speares and Suggs, then jerked as though he'd been slapped and shuffled back into the barbershop, slamming the door behind him.
Yakima snorted softly.
Speares's eyes bored into his, and he raised the rifle toward Yakima's head. ”Get on in-”
Hoof thuds rose up the street, from the direction of the bank, and both Yakima and Speares cut their eyes in that direction. A man astride a blaze-faced dun rode between the bank and the tavern, turning the horse around the dead men sprawled in the street and gazing down at each one, as if counting them. He held his jittery horse's reins tight in his gloved right fist. When he looked up and gigged the horse down the street toward the jailhouse, Yakima saw the saddle-leather skin of the man's face between pewter sideburns and the copper star winking on his buckskin coat.
Inwardly, Yakima cursed. The marshal. Yakima's luck was draining fast.
The man reined up before Speares and s.h.i.+fted his gaze between the sheriff and Yakima. The right side of his face was swollen and purple, with a two-inch gash where Yakima had kicked him, over which blood had jelled. The marshal jerked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the men lying dead in the street. ”How long ago?”
”Not fifteen minutes,” said Speares, staring at the man curiously.
The man looked at Yakima again, recognition narrowing his flat eyes, then switched his gaze back to Speares. ”Name's Patchen.” He s.h.i.+fted his weight. His sweat-lathered dun hung its head with fatigue. ”Deputy U.S. marshal out of Prescott.”
”Well, you're about fifteen minutes late,” Speares said smartly.
”You gettin' a posse together?”
Sneering, Speares canted his head toward Yakima. ”Soon as I lock up this son of a b.i.t.c.h. The breed here's the only one o' the gang that didn't buy a bullet or light a shuck.”
”I'll be ridin' with you soon as I get a fresh mount and trail supplies.” Patchen favored Yakima with another flat stare. ”Watch his feet. b.a.s.t.a.r.d kicks like a d.a.m.n mule.”
Patchen reined the dun toward the livery barn. Speares turned toward Yakima, wagging the rifle barrel. ”Inside.”
Yakima glanced east again, where the gang had disappeared into the chaparral, and shot his angry gaze back to Speares, his jaw hard. ”Every second you waste on me, they're gaining ground.”
Speares's chest rose sharply, his face reddening, nose swelling even larger. ”Inside!”
Yakima threw the door open and walked into the nearly dark office. From the door, Speares said, ”Take the key off the desk and open the cell door. The one on the right. Make one wrong move, and I'll drill a hole through your spine. I'd just as soon watch you dangle from a hang rope, but droppin' the hammer on you wouldn't break my heart.”
”You're a d.a.m.n fool, Speares,” Yakima growled as, having s.n.a.t.c.hed the key ring from the desk, he poked a key in the door of the far right cell.
He opened the door and turned to Speares once more, clenching his right fist at his side. The sheriff stretched his lips back from his horse teeth in a mocking grin and squinted one purple-rimmed eye down his Winchester's barrel. Yakima snorted and stepped into the jail cell.
Speares stepped forward and threw the door closed with an echoing clang. He turned the key in the lock, and the bolt clicked home. Speares withdrew the key, lowered the rifle, and shoved his face up close to the bars, sneering.
”I'll accompany Miss Anjanette to your hangin'. You'll wanna take care not to soil your trousers.”
Yakima threw his right fist forward. Speares pulled his swollen nose back from the door an eye wink before Yakima's fist slammed against the bars, rattling the cage's entire front wall.
Speares's eyes snapped wide. Then he smiled as Yakima rubbed his sore knuckles in his left palm. He'd torn the skin across the middle knuckle, but he kept his eyes on the sheriff, who slowly backed away from the cell, laughing.
When Speares left the jailhouse, Yakima sucked a deep, edgy breath, wrapped his hands around the bars of the cell door, and shook the door on its hinges. It rattled loudly, dust sifting from the low stone ceiling, but held firm.
Yakima turned and saw a window in the outside wall-a small rectangle with four iron bars. He wrapped his hands around two of the bars, and held his breath as he pulled back and down, the veins standing out in his neck and forehead.
Finally, when he could hold his breath no longer, he dropped back to the floor, his chest heaving, and cursed. No give in the window, either.
He turned back to the cell door, slumped down on the cot, and lowered his head to his hands. He kept hearing Anjanette's angry cry and Wolf's defiant whinny as he sat there on the edge of the cot, at once berating himself for not slipping free of Speares and trying to figure a way out of the cell and onto the trail of the girl and the horse.
He had no faith in Speares's abilities. Even if the sheriff found a way to rescue the girl, he'd leave the horse. Wolf meant nothing to him.
Yakima pulled his hair and stared at the earthen floor between his boots. Silly, probably, to worry about his horse when so many men had been killed and a girl's life was at stake. But the only things Yakima had-all that he valued-were his Yellowboy Winchester, a gift from an old friend, and the black mustang he'd traded an old Ute for when Wolf was just a colt.
As light in the cell grew, so did the sounds outside. Occasionally Yakima would look up to see a ranch wagon pa.s.s or a couple of men carrying a b.l.o.o.d.y body eastward, probably to the dead man's home. From time to time Speares's voice rose, shouting orders, and horseback riders began appearing out the jailhouse window- green, edgy-looking townsmen armed with Spencer or Springfield rifles. Most looked as much at home in a saddle as they would in a kid's tree house, and they looked like they wanted to be here as badly as ten-year-old boys wanted to be in church.
Nearly an hour after he'd locked up Yakima, Speares threw the office door open and strode inside. He was carrying Yakima's Yellowboy repeater in his right hand. The U.S. marshal, Patchen, followed him into the office.
Patchen was smoking a long black cigar, holding his own Henry over his right shoulder, the high crown of his snuff-brown Stetson nearly sc.r.a.ping the ceiling, his stovepipe boots clomping along the floor. Out the open door behind him, the posse men waited atop their fidgety mounts, grumbling among themselves.
Yakima rose and wrapped his hands around the cell bars as he stared at Speares. ”That's my repeater, Sheriff.”
Speares opened a desk drawer, glanced at Yakima. ”d.a.m.n fine gun. Too fine for a breed. Besides, you ain't gonna be needin' it where you're goin'.”
He glanced at Patchen, and both men laughed.
Speares set several boxes of .44 sh.e.l.ls on the desk. ”Help yourself, Marshal.” He chuckled as he began thumbing cartridges from a box into his cartridge belt. My sh.e.l.ls are your sh.e.l.ls-long as the marshal's office reimburses me, that is.”
Patchen stepped toward the desk, nodding his head at Yakima. ”Who you got guarding him?”
”Me.” A bulky figure in a blue s.h.i.+rt and calfskin vest slumped through the jailhouse's open door, holding his double-barreled shotgun, broken open, under his right arm. The liveryman, Suggs. ”Fifty cents a day, right, Sheriff? Till you get back?”
”That's right,” Speares said, feeding sh.e.l.ls into the Yellowboy's breech. ”Till I get back. Which shouldn't be long-if'n we can cut off that gang before they get to the border and lose themselves in the Sierra Madre.” He reached into the same drawer from which he'd produced the cartridges, and set a corked bottle on the desk. ”Drink for the road, Marshal?”
”Don't mind if I do.”
Speares grabbed a tin cup off the stove in the middle of the room, scrubbed it out with a gloved finger, set it on the desk, and splashed whiskey into it. He held the bottle up to Patchen. ”Luck.”