The Outlaws (21 page)

Billy grinned. “Come on, Ez, we’ll all go--how about it? We ain’t been into town in a coon’s age.”

It wasn’t what Mark had in mind, but once Ezra was in Lincoln, maybe Tessa could talk some sense into him. At least she’d have a chance.

“There’s Violet--” Ezra began.

‘‘Well, she can come, too. Why not?” Billy asked.

Ezra shrugged. “It’s okay with me, if you want to go,”

Mark rode into Lincoln with Billie on one side of him and Ezra on the other with the rest of the gang behind them. When he saw men on the street nudge one another, he shrugged. He wouldn’t be the first lawman to have rustlers for friends.

He tried not to think of the possibility that one day he might have to go after Billy and Ezra—and trail them to the death. As had the Comanches.

Chapter 14

Ezra left the house whistling, his breath frosty in the evening air. He’d managed to persuade Violet to visit his sister, so he didn’t have to worry about her tonight.

There wasn’t anything wrong with saloons and cantinas—a man needed a place he could drink and gamble, but Violet didn’t belong there. She wasn’t his, she was Billy’s, but he felt responsible for her just the same.

Tessa had been in a good humor, too, because he was home. He didn’t spoil it by reminding her he wouldn’t be staying long.

He pushed open the door of Hargrove’s saloon and went in. He didn’t see Billy and the others, but he knew they’d be along. At the bar a red-faced man was toying with a pearl-handled pistol. Ezra held, tensing. The man saw him and grinned.

“Don’t be afraid of Joe Grant, sonny. I don’t shoot puppies.” A few men laughed nervously.

Ezra forced himself to unclench his fists. He’d heard of Grant. As fast as they came, sober. Right now he was half-crocked. A man learned early not to argue with drunks.

“I took this little baby from Finan Chisum,” Grant boasted, his words slurring. “Yes sir. Ain’t no one owns a prettier one.” He looked along the bar, then back at Ezra. “Ain’t no one I can’t beat to the draw neither, drunk or sober.”

He peered at Ezra closely. “By God, if you ain’t the pup that runs with that son
-of-a-bitching Kid.”

The man next to Grant at the bar edged away. The room quieted.

“Well, ain’t you?” Grant demanded.

“I know Billy,” Ezra said.

Grant lifted the muzzle of his gun, pointing it at Ezra’s gut. “I mean to do for the Kid one of these days. This county ain’t big enough for him and me both.”

Ezra swallowed. If he went for his Colt, Grant would shoot. If he didn’t, he’d have to stand here and listen to insults. Grant might shoot him even if he didn’t try to draw--you never knew-what a drunk would do.

“Course, I could start with you.” Grant’s finger touched the trigger.

Ezra made himself stare into Grant’s eyes, unmoving. Bastard’s trying to get me to go for my gun, he told himself. Then he’d have an excuse. His knees felt as mushy as refried beans. He took a deep breath.

“I sure do admire that pistol,” he said, surprised that his voice didn’t quiver. “I’ve never seen a pearl-handled one before.”

Grant blinked and then glanced down at his gun. He smiled. “She’s a beauty.” The muzzle pointed away from Ezra as Grant turned the pistol over in his hands again. “Prettier than a ten-dollar whore.”

Men began talking again, a little too loudly. Ezra looked quickly around and saw that Billy had stepped in from a back room. He didn’t know how long Billy had been standing there.

Grant hadn’t seen him yet.

Billy sauntered over.

“Evening, Joe,” Billy said, grinning. “Nice little gun you got there.” He held out his hand. “Mind if I take a look?”

Grant stared at Billy. Ezra could almost hear Grant’s thoughts: If I don’t hand him the gun, I’m a coward, If I do hand him the gun, he might shoot me. If I shoot him instead of giving him the pistol, this other young pup’ll have a chance to get me.

“What the hell, take a look,” Grant said. He put the pearl-handled Colt into Billy’s hands.

Billy examined the gun, twirled the cylinder and handed it back to Grant. “Very nice,” he said. “How about a drink?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Grant agreed, sliding the gun into his holster.

“I know you ain’t much of a drinker, Ez,” Billy said. “Why don’t you play a little poker? I see there’s an empty chair.”

Ezra knew Billy wanted him away from Grant. He shrugged and said, “Sure. I feel sort of lucky tonight.”

He eased into the seat, anted and picked up the cards dealt him, watching Billy from the corner of his eye.

“Gonna be trouble,” the cowboy next to Ezra muttered, “as sure as my name’s Gene

Shelton.”

“Stand or draw?” the dealer asked.

Ezra glanced briefly at his five cards. Two kings. He’d keep those, discard three. A moment later, when the dealer threw him two cards, he realized he’d only tossed in two, keeping a jack with his two kings.

“I can draw faster than any man in the Territory,” Grant said loudly.

Ezra turned his head toward the bar. Saw Grant pull the damn pearl-handled Colt as he spoke. Aim at Billy. Before Ezra was out of his chair, Grant pulled the trigger.

The gun clicked as the hammer fell on an empty chamber.

Almost leisurely, Billy’s Colt came out of its holster. It roared just as Grant’s clicked again.

Grant staggered against the bar, then fell headlong. He twitched once. Lay still.

Ezra jammed his half-drawn pistol back into the holster as he strode toward Billy.

Billy stepped over Grant’s body. “Any luck?” he said.

It took Ezra a moment to understand what he meant, then realized he was still clutching the two kings and the jack in his left hand. “I don’t know,” he said, striving to sound as casual as Billy. “I didn’t look at my draw.”

Billy strolled back to the poker table with him and watched while Ezra picked up the two cards he’d been dealt. Two jacks.

Ezra took the pot with his full house.

“Guess it’s just your lucky night, Ez,” Billy told him.

By the time they were outside, Ezra had figured out what happened. Billy must have seen there were only a few shells in the cylinder and twirled it to get the empties up front. Grant had been too drunk to understand what was going on.

Still, Grant would be alive if he hadn’t pulled iron on Billy first.

Tess cried when Ezra packed up to leave the next morning.

“Papa would roll over in his grave if he knew you were stealing cattle,” she sobbed.

“You leave Papa out of this. He’s dead. I’m not. I’m doing things my way. I like it. It’s a free life—we live how we want and no one stops us. You got to understand, Tessa, that you can’t mother me forever. Why don’t you get married and have yourself some babies to raise?”

For some reason this made her cry harder. He felt bad going off leaving her so unhappy, but it couldn’t be helped.

“Your sister doesn’t want to marry Mr. Rutledge,” Violet pointed out to Ezra as they rode toward Sumner with the others.

“Well, Mark’s back; she could marry him if she wanted “I do not think he has asked her,” Violet said.

Ezra didn’t reply. Sometimes he didn’t understand other people. He’d sure thought Mark and Tessa were in love. But maybe it was like Billy and Violet. Sort of one-sided. Billy was fond of Violet, true, but he didn’t take care of her and he certainly didn’t plan to marry her. In fact, Ezra didn’t know what would become of Violet if he weren’t around to look after her.

When they got to Sumner, John Chisum was there on business.

“No more of this chicken one day, feathers the next,” Billy told his men. “Our worries are over. Chisum owes me at least five hundred for the work I did for him when we were riding as the Regulators.

Chisum thought otherwise. “I never hired you,” he said to Billy as they stood talking near the old army hospital, now a house.

Ezra eyed the older man. He must be lying.

“There was no agreement you were working for me,” Chisum went on.

“Damn you,” Billy cried, pulling his Colt. “We didn’t shake on it, but you know you asked me to clean out those Dolan bastards. Didn’t I do it? I mean to have that money.”

Chisum began to tamp tobacco into his pipe, paying no attention to the Colt. “I can talk better when I smoke,” he said. “Now, Billy, you listen to me. You can go on jawing away until your hair is as white as mine, but you won’t convince me I owe you a cent. Do you plan to shoot me over it? You’ve killed men, I know that, but they needed killing. I’m an honest man, or I try to be. Do you believe I need killing? Look at all the times I helped you out, letting the Regulators take anything they needed from my store at the ranch.”

Billy reluctantly put away his Colt. “I reckon you don’t need shooting,” he said, “but if you won’t agree to pay me that money, then I expect you’re going to find yourself missing cattle until it’s paid in full.”

After they left Chisum, Billy called his entire gang together.

“No money from Chisum,” he said. “We’re going to add on a few more boys and go after the old bastard’s cows. I’ll make him damn sorry he ever said ‘no’ to Billy Bonney.”

For the first time, Ezra not only mistrusted the men Billy added to their crew but downright disliked them. Dave Rudabaugh, for one was, besides being mean, so God-awful dirty you tried hard to stay up-wind of him.

For a month or so they drove Chisum steers north from Texas, selling them to army beef suppliers. Then Billy decided they needed a little fun. A new town, White Oaks, had sprung up forty-some miles northwest of Lincoln. A rich town, what with the gold being mined in the nearby mountains. Billy took a notion to travel that way and try out the saloons.

They were in one of the White Oaks saloons having a drink when an old Regulator, digging for gold now instead of riding with Billy, hurried into the place and sidled up to Billy.

“Deputy Huggens is getting a posse ready.” he said. “You better ride while you can,

Billy. He aims to get you.”

“Why we’re here all peaceful-like!” Billy exclaimed.

“Huggens is out for your hide, is all I know. He claims White Oaks ain’t a harbor for murderers and thieves. Just thought I’d pass the word.”

Billy sighed. “Getting so a man can’t have a quiet drink anymore. Well, you heard him, boys. We don’t have a quarrel with this Huggens, so I guess we ride if we don’t mean to fight.”

It was late in the afternoon when they left, so they stopped at Greathouse and Kuck’s stage station to spend the night. Near morning the sound of horses’ hooves and men shouting roused them.

“You’re surrounded,” someone yelled. “Come out with your hands up.”

Billy asked Greathouse to go out and see what was going on. Ezra, peering cautiously from a window, saw at least a dozen men on horseback milling about in front of the house.

There were only seven of them; the rest had gone to Sumner instead of White Oaks.

“Sheriff’s posse,” Greathouse reported. “They have the place surrounded, just like they said.”

“I sure as hell ain’t going to surrender to them,” Billy said. “There’s this young fellow named Carlyle wants to come in and talk to you,” Greathouse said. “Only thing is, they want one of you to go out and stay with them while Carlyle’s in here.” “Don’t like it,” Billy said.

“I could go out there,” Greathouse offered.

Billy shrugged. “That’s okay with me.”

Carlyle came in as Greathouse went out. Carlyle was a stocky young man, heavy in the arms and shoulders. He said he was a blacksmith at White Oaks, deputized for this posse.

“Don’t cotton to blacksmiths, somehow,” Billy said. “What’re you after us for, Carlyle?”

“There’s warrants out,” Carlyle said. “You ought to know that. For shooting Brady and

Roberts. And then there’s the fact you been rustling stock.” “If you got warrants, let me see your papers,” Billy said.

“We don’t carry paper. But we know about you. We don’t want your kind in White Oaks.”

“You ain’t arresting me,” Billy told him. “I ain’t going to jail for you or any man in that posse out there. What we’re going to do, is keep you with us till dark; then you can lead us out so we can quit this damn place.”

“I’m a hostage in good faith,” Carlyle protested. “You sent a man out when I came in.

You can’t keep me here.”

“We sure as hell can.”

Someone banged on the door and a note was shoved underneath. Ezra ran to pick it up. He handed the note to Billy.

“Says that if I don’t let you go in the next few minutes,” Billy told Carlyle, “they mean to shoot Greathouse. Now what kind of good faith is that?” Carlyle waved his fist. “Surrender!” he cried.

“You’re loco, if they kill Greathouse, it sure puts your butt in a real deep crack. I told you what I mean--”