things. A man in his line of work spent a lot of time urging the dead to give up their secrets.
The gun had been fired; only three bullets remained in the chambers.
He set the arm and weapon next to the body.
Mounting his horse, he rode into a little arroyo that was protected by a wall of pines. He tethered the black to a tree and gathered up some firewood with his hatchet. The wind was reduced to a gentle breeze in the gully and Longtree got the fire going right away. He would spend the night here. In the morning, he would drag the body into Wolf Creek and begin the job he'd come to do.
He unhitched his saddle from the black and jerked the saddle blanket off, stretching it over some rocks to let it dry; it was damp with the horse's perspiration. Longtree curled up before the blazing fire and chewed some jerky from his grub sack.
He dozed.
22
----
He didn't sleep long.
Sometime after midnight he heard horses coming up the trail that cut down the slope below him and led in the direction of Wolf Creek. He heard at least a half dozen of them come within three-hundred yards of his position, the riders dismounting. They must've seen the smoke from his fire.
He pulled himself free from his bedroll and swigged from his canteen.
In silence, he waited.
He heard them coming, stumbling through the snow to the pines that sheltered his arroyo. They were a noisy lot. Had to be whites. They stomped forward, chatting and arguing.
Longtree strapped on his nickel-plated Colt .45 Peacemakers and drew his Winchester from the saddle boot. Then he waited. They were coming down now. Longtree positioned himself away from the glow of the fire, leaning against a shelf of rocks, hidden in shadow.
They came down together, six menin heavy woolen coats. They sported shotguns and pistols and one even had an ancient Hawken rifle. They plowed down, packed together. Very unprofessional. It would've been easy killing the lot of them.
"You got business here?" Longtree called from the darkness.
They looked startled, hearing a voice echoing, but unable to pinpoint it. They scanned their guns in every which direction. Longtree smiled.
"Identify yourselves or I'll start shooting," he called out.
The men looked around, bumping into each other.
"Bill Lauters," a big man said. "Sheriff, Wolf Creek." He tapped a badge pinned to his coat.
Longtree sighed. He knew who Lauters was.
He stepped out of the shadows and moved noiselessly to them. He was almost on top of them before they saw him and then their guns were on him.
"Who the hell are you?" one of them said.
"Easy, Dewey," Lauters said.
"Longtree, deputy U.S. Marshal," he said in an even tone, showing his own badge. "You were wired about--"
"Yeah, yeah, I got it all right. I know who you are and why you're here." Lauters said this as if the idea were beneath contempt. "You can just ride right back out again far as I'm concerned. We don't need no damn federal help."
"Regardless, Sheriff, you're going to get it."
"Where the hell's Benneman?" the one called Dewey asked. "He's the federal marshal in these parts."
"John Benneman got shot up," Longtree explained. "He'll be out of action a while."
Lauters spit a stream of tobacco juice in the snow. "And we're really lucky, boys, cause we got us a special U.S. Marshal here," he said sarcastically. "I guess we can just hang up our guns now."
Longtree smiled thinly. "I'm not taking over your investigation, Sheriff. I'm just here to help."
"My ass you are," one of them muttered.
"Nothing but trouble," another said.
Lauters nodded. "We don't need your help."
"Don't you?"
"Ride out," Lauters said. "Ride the hell out of here."
"Never happen," Longtree assured him.
The guns weren't lowered; they were raised now, if anything.
"I'm here to help. Nothing more." Longtree fished out a cigar and lit it with an ember from the fire. "Course," he said, "if you boys would rather stand around and argue like a bunch of schoolboys while more people
The gun had been fired; only three bullets remained in the chambers.
He set the arm and weapon next to the body.
Mounting his horse, he rode into a little arroyo that was protected by a wall of pines. He tethered the black to a tree and gathered up some firewood with his hatchet. The wind was reduced to a gentle breeze in the gully and Longtree got the fire going right away. He would spend the night here. In the morning, he would drag the body into Wolf Creek and begin the job he'd come to do.
He unhitched his saddle from the black and jerked the saddle blanket off, stretching it over some rocks to let it dry; it was damp with the horse's perspiration. Longtree curled up before the blazing fire and chewed some jerky from his grub sack.
He dozed.
22
----
He didn't sleep long.
Sometime after midnight he heard horses coming up the trail that cut down the slope below him and led in the direction of Wolf Creek. He heard at least a half dozen of them come within three-hundred yards of his position, the riders dismounting. They must've seen the smoke from his fire.
He pulled himself free from his bedroll and swigged from his canteen.
In silence, he waited.
He heard them coming, stumbling through the snow to the pines that sheltered his arroyo. They were a noisy lot. Had to be whites. They stomped forward, chatting and arguing.
Longtree strapped on his nickel-plated Colt .45 Peacemakers and drew his Winchester from the saddle boot. Then he waited. They were coming down now. Longtree positioned himself away from the glow of the fire, leaning against a shelf of rocks, hidden in shadow.
They came down together, six menin heavy woolen coats. They sported shotguns and pistols and one even had an ancient Hawken rifle. They plowed down, packed together. Very unprofessional. It would've been easy killing the lot of them.
"You got business here?" Longtree called from the darkness.
They looked startled, hearing a voice echoing, but unable to pinpoint it. They scanned their guns in every which direction. Longtree smiled.
"Identify yourselves or I'll start shooting," he called out.
The men looked around, bumping into each other.
"Bill Lauters," a big man said. "Sheriff, Wolf Creek." He tapped a badge pinned to his coat.
Longtree sighed. He knew who Lauters was.
He stepped out of the shadows and moved noiselessly to them. He was almost on top of them before they saw him and then their guns were on him.
"Who the hell are you?" one of them said.
"Easy, Dewey," Lauters said.
"Longtree, deputy U.S. Marshal," he said in an even tone, showing his own badge. "You were wired about--"
"Yeah, yeah, I got it all right. I know who you are and why you're here." Lauters said this as if the idea were beneath contempt. "You can just ride right back out again far as I'm concerned. We don't need no damn federal help."
"Regardless, Sheriff, you're going to get it."
"Where the hell's Benneman?" the one called Dewey asked. "He's the federal marshal in these parts."
"John Benneman got shot up," Longtree explained. "He'll be out of action a while."
Lauters spit a stream of tobacco juice in the snow. "And we're really lucky, boys, cause we got us a special U.S. Marshal here," he said sarcastically. "I guess we can just hang up our guns now."
Longtree smiled thinly. "I'm not taking over your investigation, Sheriff. I'm just here to help."
"My ass you are," one of them muttered.
"Nothing but trouble," another said.
Lauters nodded. "We don't need your help."
"Don't you?"
"Ride out," Lauters said. "Ride the hell out of here."
"Never happen," Longtree assured him.
The guns weren't lowered; they were raised now, if anything.
"I'm here to help. Nothing more." Longtree fished out a cigar and lit it with an ember from the fire. "Course," he said, "if you boys would rather stand around and argue like a bunch of schoolboys while more people
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