Chapter 12
They cleared the saloon. Outside, several curious townsfolk, including the doctor and the boy, watched as the volunteers—sixteen in all, not counting Conn—set to fetching their horses.
Conn was appreciative of their help but increasingly impatient as the moment unfolded and it became clear just how drunk some of the men were.
Several hurried to spaces between buildings to empty their bladders, while several others retreated to parts unknown to get horses and firearms. Others staggered about, proclaiming drunken vows of vengeance that lifted into the air on frosty breath.
The black-haired man came over and introduced himself. “Bill Sheffield.”
“Conn Sullivan,” Conn said, shaking the man’s big, calloused hand.
“Rudy McKay,” the red-haired man said, offering his hand next.
“What do you want to do?” Sheffield said.
Conn glanced toward the confusion of bumbling volunteers. “We’ll give them another minute then ride out.”
Sheffield nodded. “You said the rest rode west. Where?”
Conn explained the crossroads where the group had split.
“I know that trail,” McKay said. “Runs to the mountains then splits north and south. They’re probably heading south. I’ll bet they cross the range by Four-Mile Creek Pass.”
“This time of night?” Sheffield said dubiously. “They’ll break their necks, even with the moonlight. More likely, they’ll hole up in the old trapper’s cabin close to the crossroads.”
“Guess you’re probably right,” McKay said. Then he asked Conn, “You know these men?”
“I know their names,” Conn said, and recited them from memory. When men kill your brother, there’s no need to write down their names. You hear them once, those names are branded straight into your mind forever.
“I’ve known Danny Bump since he was just a kid,” McKay said. “He’s been nothing but trouble the whole time. I’ve seen him palling around with some rough-looking men lately. Must be the ones we’re after.”
“Toole’s trouble,” Sheffield said. “You know him? Short fella, does some work for Joe Jacobs? Hangs around with Tripp Daniels.”
“Not anymore, he doesn’t,” Conn said. “Tripp Daniels is dead.”
Sheffield accepted this with a nod. “Toole’s a scrapper. He beat the tar out of Dale Jennings a couple weeks back.”
“Dale Jennings?” McKay said. “Name’s familiar. Is he a real tall fella?”
Sheffield nodded. “Tall, quiet. Real nice. Toole started in on him for no reason at all. Broke his jaw and his ribs, knocked out one of his front teeth. Made the man cry. In front of everybody. Jennings will move out of the country after that. And he’s just the sort we want here. Unlike Toole.”
“Let’s ride,” Conn said, tired of waiting.
Of course, that’s right when the marshal showed up.
Somebody had fetched him. He looked half asleep and sort of bewildered and carried a Winchester but didn’t point it at anybody, even once folks had directed him to Conn.
He introduced himself as Marshal Andrews and asked what happened, and Conn went back over it all again, hating the delay. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, Marshal, we’re gonna go catch these men.”
“You can’t do that,” the marshal said.
“Watch us,” Sheffield said, heading for his horse.
“Calm down, Bill,” Andrews said.
“We’re riding,” Conn said, starting across the street toward where his gelding stood beside the horses of the three dead murderers.
“Hold on, Sullivan,” Marshal Andrews said, coming after him. “Don’t go riding off like that. Doing it that way would be vigilantism and would put us at odds.”
“These men need to die,” Conn said.
“Well, it sure sounds that way,” the marshal said. “But let me swear you in as deputies, and I’ll lead the posse. That way, it’ll be legal and none of us will get in trouble.”
Conn stopped. “All right. Let’s do it then. Swear us in.”
“Well,” the marshal said, “first, I gotta check things out. You gave your story, but I’d best at least ride out to your brother’s place and verify everything before we go running off, ready to shoot these fellas.”
Conn shook his head. “If you want to go out to my brother’s place, go ahead. I’m getting after these killers. Now.”
“Same here,” Sheffield said, riding up on a tall, black horse.
“Let’s go,” McKay shouted to the others.
Several men climbed into their saddles. Another came scampering up the street to join them.
The marshal looked back and forth with a troubled expression. Finally, he shook his head. “All right, all right. I can see you boys are all fired up and ready to go. I hope you’re telling the truth, Sullivan.”
“I always tell the truth,” Conn said, and untied his gelding from the doctor’s hitching post.
The marshal kind of swore them in, calling them all over and telling them to raise their right hands and having them repeat his words, which stumbled out of him in what sounded like a blend of memory and imagination.
Conn didn’t care how accurate the swearing in was. He said the words, just wanting to get after his brother’s killers.
“All right, men,” the marshal said. “You’re all deputies now. You take your orders from me.”
That’s when one of the volunteers, too drunk to stay in the saddle, fell off his horse and busted his arm. He set to wailing, and someone went for the doctor, who had disappeared from the crowd. Two others, apparently friends of the injured man, helped him to his feet.
“What a mess,” Conn growled.
“Yeah,” Sheffield said. “Let’s get out of here and see who keeps up. We don’t need the ones who can’t.”
“Good plan,” Conn said, happy to have the man along. He whistled sharply to the others. “Roll out!”
Marshal Andrews told them he had to go get his horse. It wouldn’t take but ten minutes.
“Catch up to us,” Conn said, moving forward. “We’re gonna get started before somebody else falls out of his saddle.”
Sheffield, McKay, and several others followed.
A moment later, they’d left Marshal Andrews, the howling drunk, his friends, and a few dead men behind.