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Even before his horse's ears suddenly pointed for-ward, Webb Matlock was becoming uneasy. He had slipped his saddlegun out of its scabbard beneath his leg and had lifted it up across the pommel, on the ready. He pulled the dun horse to a halt and raised his left as a signal to the riders with him.
"Easy, boys. We don't want to be in no hurry about this thing."
Webb Matlock wore a sheriff's badge. With him rode five men from the Box L cow outfit, hurriedly deputized to help him run out the trail of some would-be cattle thieves. Johnny Willet and another Box L hand had come unexpectedly upon a half a dozen men hazing 70 or 80 of Old Man Jess Leggett's good cows south toward the Rio Grande. Rather than tackle the rustlers themselves, they had pulled back unseen and spurred to the ranch headquarters.
For several years now, Old Man Jess had been bringing in good Durham bulls to breed out the Longhorn strain. He was proud of these halfbreed cows and didn't want to lose any of them. Over and above that, he held a deep and abiding hatred for thieves. In olden times, before there had been law to look to, he had shot or hanged them himself. This time he had sent for Webb Matlock. Then, instead of waiting, the impatient old man had taken his cowboys and set out in pursuit. They fought a running battle that forced the thieves to give up the cattle. But Old Jess had fallen with a bullet in his shoulder. That had stopped the pursuit until Webb got there.
The last thing Jess had hollered at Webb as they had hauled him toward town in a wagon was: "You get 'em now, you hear?"
This was the Texas border country, and ladrones out of Mexico sometimes still came over the border to hit and run, steal and carry off whatever they could get away with. In many people on both sides of the river, old hatreds still burned. To some on the south side, the Texas revolution and the Mexican war had meant nothing. To these this land still rightfully belonged to Mexico, and so did everything that walked upon it.
Webb had asked Johnny Willet, "Mexicans, Johnny?"
Johnny had been riding in a strange, thoughtful silence. He shook his head. "Mostly it was gringos. Odd thing about one of them, he…" Johnny broke off. "Forget it, you wouldn't believe it."
"Believe what, Johnny?"
"Nothin', it was a crazy notion." He changed the subject. "I'm pretty sure we hit one of them. He slumped over, nearly fell off his horse. Got away into the brush, though, and that was the last we seen of him."
A mile or so back they had come upon a blood-crusted handkerchief lying amid the fresh horsetracks, and they had known for sure.
Now Webb sat rigid in the saddle, squinting into a brushy header where in rainy times the water would come rushing off the sides of the rocky hills to spread out down a silty mesquite draw. Webb Matlock was a medium-tall man in his early thirties, a little on the stocky side but without any fat on him. He had a square face, a strong jaw that showed the dark stubble of two days' whiskers. His gray eyes were habitually squinted a little, for this was a land of harsh sunlight, dust, and wind. He was a sober, sober, serious man for the most part, so much so that people who didn't know sometimes guessed him to be much older than he was. He had toted his own load since before he was fifteen.
The black-tipped ears of his dun horse were still pointed forward. Looking around him, Matlock could see that a couple of the other horses were the same.
Something ahead of us yonder, he thought. Pity a man can't be as smart as a horse.
He made a sweeping motion with his hand. "Fan out, boys. Couple of you work up the hill on one side of that header, a couple on the other. Better go afoot. Ollie Reed, what say you hold the horses."
Ollie Reed, 50 now and bald as an egg, was glad enough to accept that chore. He was not the contentious kind.
Halfway out of his saddle, Johnny Willet stopped himself and asked, "Webb, what you aimin' to do?"
"You don't flush quail by ridin' around them. Somebody's got to go on in."
The sheriff swung to the ground to make himself less of a target. He stood behind his horse for cover and peered across the saddle, looking for signs of anything in the brush. He waited then, giving the men time to work up the hills on either side of the header. Once they were there, they should have a good view of whatever might be below them. They could provide cover for Webb when he moved in.
Ollie Reed's voice was thin with excitement. "I don't like this, Webb, don't like it atall. Puts me in mind of the days when Clabe Donovan and his bunch was runnin' loose."
"Clabe Donovan's dead, Ollie."
Ollie nodded, shivering "That don't keep me from rememberin'."
Not many years ago, Clabe Donovan and a wild bunch that ran with him were cutting a wide swath through the border country, jumping back and forth across the Rio Grande, stealing what they wanted, killing when someone got in their way. Donovan caught the blame for just about everything bad that happened in those days. Likely it wasn't all justified, but he had gloried in it anyway, perversely proud that he was becoming a legend while he still lived.
In death, the legend had kept on growing.
Webb's horse nickered. An answering nicker came from within the thorny tangle of mesquite. Limbs crackled. A riderless bay horse broke into the open, moving in a long trot. He came straight toward the possemen's horses and stopped among them.
Webb saw blood splotches on the saddle.
He glanced at the wide-eyed Ollie Reed. "There's probably a rustler lyin' in yonder dead."
"And again, maybe he ain't," Reed observed nervously. "Wounded animal is the most dangerous kind."
"A man's different from an animal."
"Some of them ain't."
Webb handed Ollie his bridle reins. "We'll find out pretty quick." Holding the saddlegun ready, he started toward the brush afoot. He moved cautiously from one mesquite to another, keeping himself behind cover of the green leaves as much as he could. A cold tingle ran up and down his back. His sweaty shirt clung to him.
A bullet whined by his head. Leaves drifted down from a mesquite where the slug had clipped them. He threw himself to the ground, breaking his fall first with his knees, then with the butt of the rifle. He snapped a shot in the direction from which the report had come. A second bullet buzzed angrily overhead.
Six-shooter. Webb could tell by the sound. Six-shooter must be all the man had. If he had a rifle he would have used it. At this range, only the rankest kind of luck would score the man a hit. The sheriff levered another cartridge into the breech, pushed to his knees, and sprinted again. This time he saw the flash. The saddlegun was nearly torn from his hands. Splinters drove searing hot into his skin. The bullet had glanced off the wooden stock.
He saw a depression ahead, with a bush beyond to help hide him. He dived, sliding in the loose rocks, ripping his clothing, tearing his flesh. He knew he was bruised blue. Breathing hard, he paused to wipe sweat from his forehead onto his sleeve. He listened, hearing movement as the gunman tried to shift position. Webb called:
"This is Sheriff Matlock. We got you surrounded. No sense in you fightin' anymore. Throw your gun out and raise up where we can see you."
Another shot sent more mesquite leaves showering down.
Webb called again: "You're playin' the fool. If you're wounded, you need doctorin'. Don't just lay there and die."
He heard a cough. A weak voice said, "You'd never get me to town. You'd hang me."
"Nobody'll molest you, I give my word on that."
Johnny Willet was cautiously working his way back down the hillside. The cowboy paused tensely and caught the sheriff's eye. He held up one finger. Just one man, that was all.
The sheriff tried reasoning again. "You haven't got a chance, so why keep on with it? Don't make us have to kill you." He held his breath, waiting for an answer that didn't come. "There's already been enough blood spilled. We don't want any more."
Johnny Willet was moving in closer.
"Last chance," Webb called. "What do you say?"
The outlaw squeezed off another shot. It kicked dirt into Webb Matlock's eyes. The sheriff blinked desperately to clear away the burning, the momentary blindness.
He could hear Johnny's voice. "All right now, mister, how about it?"
Webb heard a desperate cry as the outlaw flopped over to see the man who had crept up on him unseen. The pistol cracked. Then Willet's rifle roared. Webb heard a groan. The pistol fell, rattling upon the rocks.
Webb stood up rubbing his eyes, blinking away the sand. He could see the cowboys closing in. Johnny Willet stood slump-shouldered, the smoking rifle held slackly in one hand. He glanced up as the sheriff reached him.
"Sometimes, Johnny, a man's got no choice. Did he hit you?"
Eyes bleak, Johnny shook his head. "Missed. Scared, I reckon. Took a wild shot."
"Next one might not've been so wild. You had to shoot him."
Willet's mouth twisted. "That don't make it no easier." He walked off into the brush to stand alone, his back turned.
The gunman lay twisted, face to the ground, legs drawn up in dying agony. Breath still struggled in him, but it wouldn't last long. Gently Webb turned him over. His heart went sick.
Gray-haired Uncle Joe Vickers, the Box L foreman, took a long look and cursed softly. "A button, Webb, not a day over twenty! Just a slick-faced kid is all!"
Webb knelt beside the dying youth. "Can you hear me, boy?"
The youngster tried hard. He managed a weak "Yes."
"They just threw you away, kid. They left you to cover for them, and they ran off. Who was it?"
The boy didn't answer.
Webb said, "You don't owe them a thing now, son. Tell us, who was it?"
His lips painfully attempted to form the word. "Dono…Donovan."
Webb looked quickly up at the perplexed faces around him. He said, "Boy, that can't be. Donovan is dead."
The youngster started again. "Don…Don…" The voice trailed off and he was gone.
Webb stayed on one knee. ...
