Webb's Posse (10 page)

“Just throw me into a saddle and watch me,” said Frieze.

“Good man,” said Teasdale. He looked at Hargrove, then Benson, saying to them as he slid away on his belly, “Stay put here until they ride away with the gun. Help Frieze clean that wound and cover it.”

“Where the hell are you going, Sergeant?” Hargrove asked in a harsh whisper.

“I'm going to get our horses,” said Teasdale, slowing long enough to cast a warning glance at Hargrove.
“Make that the last question you ask me until you get some stripes back on your sleeves.”

Gilbert Metts had no trouble locating the spooked army horses. Three of the big bays stood grazing less than a mile away. As soon as he spotted the horses in a stretch of wild grass alongside a thin stream running down from the hills, Metts swung wide of them and eased up slowly. When he saw the horses weren't going to bolt away at the sight of him, he sidled his horse up close, picked up the dangling reins to the first one, then made his rounds until all three were in tow. Before heading back to the rest of the men, he took a pint bottle of whiskey from inside his shirt, uncorked it and tipped it toward the big army bays.

“I'll say one thing…these damn Yankees are finding better-looking horses every day.” He threw back a long drink, corked the bottle and put it away. Checking the front of his shirt to make sure the bottle didn't show, he heeled his horse forward, leading the army bays behind him. For the next few minutes he trotted his horse, hoping to catch up to his comrades before they left the narrow trail with their new machine rifle. But when he neared the trail, he saw a drifting rise of dust where the men had taken the gun wagon upward.

“Damn it,” Metts cursed under his breath as he stopped beneath a cliff overhang less than four feet above his head. He pulled the three bays up beside him, wrapped their reins around his saddle horn, took out the whiskey bottle again and had a quick sip. Then he corked the bottle and put it away. “Now we'll have to ride like hell to catch up to them,” he said to the horses and the empty land surrounding him. Heeling his horse forward, he'd begun to unwrap
the reins to the bays when Sergeant Teasdale swept down behind him and clamped a thick forearm around his throat.

Gilbert Metts stiffened upward in his saddle as the blade of Teasdale's big knife sliced deep between his ribs and found his heart with expert aim. Metts let out a long groan, turning loose of his reins and clawing at Teasdale's forearm with both hands. But only for a second. Then Metts' hands feel limp to his sides. Teasdale removed the bloody knife blade and wiped it across Metts' chest. Quickly, he reached inside Metts' shirt and jerked out the bottle of whiskey. Then he gave Metts' body a shove as he slid forward into the saddle and grabbed the reins. “Whoa, boys,” he said to the nervous bays. “You're back where you belong now.”

Putting his knife back into his boot well, Teasdale downed a quick shot of the whiskey, corked it and shoved it down into his waistband. “Now back to work,” he whispered to himself, studying the dust from the Peltry Gang as it drifted upward across the hilltops. “You've stepped on the wrong dog's tail today,” he said to the rise of dust.

By the time Teasdale had arrived back on the slope where Hargrove, Benson and Frieze lay waiting behind the cover of a large boulder, the rise of the Peltry Gang's dust had all but settled. The sky above the ridgeline shone clear and blue with no regard for the dead men and horses strewn along the rocky trail below. At the sound of the horses' hooves moving up from the bottom of the long slope, Hargrove peeped around the side of the boulder long enough to recognize Teasdale. “Relax, men, it's the good sergeant,” Hargrove said, slumping back against the boulder. “He brought us horses just like he said he would.” Hargrove offered a slight, begrudging grin.

Frieze caught the cynical edge to Hargrove's words and said, “I know how much it galls you taking orders from a man who started out under your wing, Hargrove. But it ain't Teasdale's fault you lost your stripes.”

“Did I ask you anything, Frieze?” Hargrove leaned toward him with a malevolent stare.

“No, you didn't,” said Frieze, holding a wet bandanna pressed to his wound, “but it's my hide on the line here too. This is no place for you and Teasdale to go seeing who can outsoldier the other. You taught him everything he knows…. You better back him up, not go against him.”

Hargrove stared at Frieze, knowing he was right but not able to turn the matter loose. “Shut your mouth, Frieze, before you become the first wounded man I ever had to rap in the teeth.”

“Damn it, you two,” said Doyle Benson. “This ain't no time to go fighting among ourselves!” He looked back and forth between Hargrove and Frieze.

“See,” said Frieze to Hargrove. “Even a new man knows that much.”

Hargrove spit on the ground then turned away and waved Sergeant Teasdale in. “Over here, Sergeant,” he said in a lowered voice.

Teasdale hurried the horses the remaining few yards up the slope and into the cover of the large shading boulder. As the sergeant slipped down from the saddle, Hargrove took the reins to the army bays and looked the three horses over. “You sure took a big chance riding up here in the open that way, Teasdale,” Hargrove said. “If we'd been dead and the Peltrys were waiting here…”

Teasdale overlooked Hargrove's insubordination, giving a slight grin. “I had faith in yas, Hargrove,”
he said, reaching down and taking the whiskey bottle from his waistband as he spoke. Teasdale pitched the bottle to Hargrove. “Hit it and pass it on. I figured you men could use a good snort of dust cutter about now.”

“Well, all right now!” Hargrove smiled, catching the bottle and examining it. This time his smile looked real. “We've got horses and whiskey,” he chuckled. “Things are starting to look better all the time.” He took a drink from the bottle, then passed it to Frieze's reaching hand.

“Kill it quickly,” said Teasdale. “I figure the Peltrys are headed for the settlement at Little Sand River. I wish to God we could flank them and get there before they do. But I know it's impossible.”

“Why do you figure the Little Sand?” Hargrove asked, his disposition more agreeable now as he wiped a hand across his lips.

“Just a hunch,” said Teasdale. “I figure it was a fluke, them spotting us down here and seeing we had a Gatling rifle. They'll have to backtrack to get to Little Sand, but I figure as bloodthirsty as they are, they'll be itching to try out their new weapon.”

Hargrove considered his words for a minute, then said, “Well, we'll know where they're headed once we top the trail and see their hoofprints, won't we?”

“That's right, Hargrove,” said Sergeant Teasdale. “They're not counting on us following them.” He grinned. “They know there's only a few of us. They figure nobody would be that crazy.”

“Then I guess you'll show them otherwise, eh?” Hargrove said, squinting into the afternoon sunlight as he looked up along the high ridgeline.

“Exactly,” said Sergeant Teasdale, taking the bottle from Doyle Benson. “Take yourself a horse and prepare
to ride. We've got daylight left and a long night ahead of us.” He looked at Frieze. “Is that wound good and clean?”

“As well as we could do, Sergeant,” said Frieze. “It's not hurting or nothing. See?” He raised his arm and stretched it.

Sergeant Teasdale looked at Hargrove and saw the dark look in his eyes. “I helped him clean it best we could, Sergeant,” Hargrove said in a lowered voice, “but it's full of dirt and blue wool from his shirt. You know how bad that is about infection.”

Teasdale turned from Hargrove as if not hearing him. “Good man, Frieze. Keep it wet and keep tending to it. Now, let's cover some ground.”

Evening shadows stretched long across the hills and grasslands as Will Summers and Abner Webb slowed their horses and looked back at the rest of the posse twenty yards behind them. “When we get down into that valley,” said Summers, “it's important you keep this bunch back a ways until I let these gunrunners know it's me. Dick Vertrees has been known to shoot a man's head off for just looking at him suspicious.”

“Dick Vertrees?” A worried look came to Abner Webb's battered face. “You didn't mention Vertrees, Will.”

“Well, I would have if I thought it made this much difference,” Will Summers said with a trace of sarcasm, looking Webb up and down. “What's wrong with you, Webb? You look like I threw a snake down your shirt!”

“Jesus, Will,” said Abner Webb. “I had no idea you knew people like Vertrees.”

“I know lots of people everywhere, Webb,” said Summers in his own defense. “When a man buys and sells horses for a living, he meets a wide range of people.”

Webb stared ahead into the shadowed valley as the rest of the men came to a halt a few feet back. “Then I suppose you know Jim Tunley and Arch Baumgartner?”

“I know everybody who runs with Dick Vertrees, Deputy,” said Summers. “What of it?”

“They're all wanted by the law, Will…that's what of it,” Webb protested. “I can't be dealing with the likes of Vertrees, Baumgartner and Tunley. They're no different than the ones we're hunting! What kind of lawman do you think I am?”

“A poorly armed one,” Summers responded. “If we don't get down there and talk Vertrees into selling us some guns, you might just as well send these men home…or else you'll get them killed. Are you with me on this or not?”

Before Webb could answer, the other possemen sidled closer, Louis Collingsworth at the lead. “Is there a problem here, Deputy?” he asked Webb.

Abner Webb looked at the men, noting some of the old and outdated firearms sticking from their belts and saddle boots. Lagging back from the others, Edmund Daniels sat with a glazed look on his swollen face, a large, bloody knot shining atop his bare head. “Everybody listen to me,” Webb said. “These men we're going to be buying guns from are not the most law-abiding men you'll ever meet. I want to make sure you all know what we're getting ready to do here.”

“They're gunrunners, is that it?” said Carl Margood, the livery owner. “We already figured they weren't church deacons.” A short, nervous laugh stirred across the men, then settled.

“I don't want nobody here thinking we're going to start making a habit of stepping outside the law,” said Webb. “These men just happen to have guns, and we need—”

“That's right, they
are
gunrunners,” Summers cut in, answering Margood. “That makes them a bit skittish by nature…and seeing us ride in is going to
make them even worse. So if you don't want to get yourself shot, stay back with Webb and don't make any sudden moves while I talk to them. Don't say nothing these men could take the wrong way.”

When Summers finished talking, Wild Joe Duvall looked at Abner Webb and said, “Deputy, nobody here cares who we get guns from, if that's what you're concerned about. Ain't that right, men?” He tossed the question over his shoulder and heard the rest of the men agree with him. “Don't worry about us. We'll be meek as mice if we need to be, so long as it gets us some guns.” A grin crept onto Wild Joe's lips as he added, “Once we get ourselves better armed, that might be a different story.”

“I just wanted to make sure everybody knows where we stand,” said Abner Webb.

Will Summers turned his horse toward the narrow trail into the valley. “Looks like everybody knows,” he said. He heeled his horse forward at a walk. Abner Webb and the rest of the riders fell in a few yards behind him.

They followed the downward winding trail until it stopped at the edge of a wide, shallow stream. On the other side of the stream stood a weathered plank shack with a curl of smoke reaching up from a tin stovepipe. Will Summers raised a hand and said to Abner Webb and the others, “Stay back on this side of the creek until I see that everything's all right.” He gigged his horse forward and made it across the water. But then a voice called out from a grove of trees near the shack. “That's close enough, Summers. What the hell are you doing, bringing this bunch of flatheads into our hideout?”

“Easy, Dick,” Summers replied to the grove of trees. “These men are riding with me. We're here on business.”

“What about that piece of tin on that one's chest?” Dick Vertrees asked, stepping warily into sight from behind a tree trunk and pointing his rifle barrel loosely at Abner Webb. “It sure looks like a badge to me.”

“You're right, Dick. It's a badge,” said Will Summers. “This is the sheriff's deputy from Rileyville. The town got hit by the Peltry Gang. They took most of the guns with them. That's why we're here. We want to buy guns from you.”

“Deputy, huh?” said Dick Vertrees. “Where was the sheriff?” He looked around as if expecting an ambush any minute.