He wished he could get Jason interested in taking the position of Deputy U.S. Marshal. It would surely solve a passel of problems for him. ’Course, that meant they’d get dumped on Jason, but Jason was better at this than he thought, and he had himself a mighty good deputy in Ward Wanamaker. Good enough that he’d considered asking Ward to join up if he couldn’t convince Jason.
When he got married—oh, Electa, his lovely Electa!—he was thinking about resigning. The job wasn’t fair to a wife. He’d have to spend so much time away from home, and there was always the chance that he could be killed. . . .
But then, the job had been his life up until now. Maybe he couldn’t just drop it that easily, for thinking about it and actually doing it were two different things.
He took a final drag off his smoke and stubbed it out in the ashtray, then methodically began to roll another. It was the next to the last paper, he noticed.
He began to daydream about Electa again, about having someone to come home to, someone to cook for him and darn his socks, and most of all, to bear his children. He was nearing forty-five, and felt like he was pushing his luck, for someone in his line of work. Electa was smart and Electa was pretty. A right handsome woman, his pa would have said.
And Electa had the bearing and the air of authority. He’d seen her with those kids. Hell, some of them were big enough and mean enough that they spooked him! But she had them in her hip pocket. A person didn’t learn that, they had to come by it naturally.
Just that air of hers, that command, had convinced him that she was the woman for him.
He decided that he’d ride out to her father’s ranch in the morning and ask his permission to marry his daughter, just like Electa had requested. It never crossed his mind that Mr. Morton would say no. Electa was so ripe she was going to burst if somebody didn’t marry her, and quick.
There were two Morton families, she’d told him, and her parents lived in the first house he’d come to, if he followed the trail. It seemed simple enough.
He stubbed out the smoke and, rising, hauled his carcass over to the bed and lay down, a silly smile plastered over his weary face. Oh, Electa, he thought as he drifted off to sleep. My Electa.
18
At about four-thirty in the morning, Jason was awakened by a spate of gunshots coming from the east. Down by the jail, he thought, and muttered, “Crap!”
He sprang up from the bed, tugged on his clothes, and ran from the house and up the street to the sound of hoofbeats fading into the distance, headed south.
“Ward!” he called as he kept running, down toward the office. “Ward!”
There was no answer except from Mrs. Kendall, who was out on the street in her nightclothes and shouted, “What happened?!” as he ran past.
“Don’t know!” Jason shouted over his shoulder, and shoved open the jailhouse doors. The lamp on his desk was lit and there were signs of a struggle, and Sampson Davis’s cell was empty.
Muttering, “Damn it,” and then shouting, “Ward!” again, he heard a soft moan coming from in front of the other cell. Rushing toward the source, he nearly tripped over Ward’s body. He knelt to it, saw that he was still breathing, but that he had one bullet hole, bleeding profusely, in his chest, and another in his shoulder.
“Dear God,” he said, and went back to the door, throwing it wide. “Call Dr. Morelli!” he shouted to Mrs. Kendall, still where he’d left her. “Ward’s been shot!”
He scurried back inside again, and knelt beside Ward. His deputy’s breathing was shallow, but steady, he thought. He said a silent prayer that Ward would make it—what would they do without him?—and waited for the doctor to show up.
Morelli was there faster than he could have hoped, dressed in his nightclothes but carrying his black bag. “What happened?” he asked.
“Don’t know. The shots woke me. But somebody was galloping hell-bent for leather out of town when I was running up here, and Davis is gone.”
“I heard the shots, too. There were four of them, altogether.”
“So Ward fired back. He’s a dead shot, Doc. At least one’a those slugs of his had to connect.”
“We’ll hope. Right now, help me get him across the street. He needs surgery, right away.”
The door burst open again just as Jason and Morelli managed to get Ward halfway up.
It was Abe, who had his gun out, ready for anything. But he stuck it back in its holster once he took in the situation and said, “Oh, Christ. Not Ward! Is he . . .”
“Not yet,” said Jason. “Give us a hand with him, all right?”
Abe grabbed Ward around the middle, and the three of them managed to get the deputy across the street and into Morelli’s surgery. Once Morelli had ushered them back out into the waiting room and closed the drape between them, Abe asked, “Davis did it, didn’t he?”
Jason, on the verge of tears, nodded. “Morelli said he heard four shots, and only two of ’em are in Ward. One’s in the wall beside the clock, which means that Davis has got one of ’em in him.”
“How the hell’d he get a gun?”
“Good question.”
“Where’d he go?”
“Outta town, riding south.”
“What’re we waitin’ for, then?”
Abe’s eagerness fired up Jason rather than sinking him down into deeper despair, and he jumped up and headed out the door and home to saddle up Cleo.
Once Cleo was tacked up—and in record time—Jason rode up to the livery to find not only Abe, but Rafe waiting for him. Jason eyed Rafe. “You sure you wanna come?”
“’Course I’m sure.”
“But—”
Rafe waved him off. “Let’s go!” He wheeled his mount and took off through the gates, heading due south.
“How’s he know where to go?” Jason shouted to Abe.
“I told him!”
They followed Rafe nearly all the way to the Double M, where he slowed and searched, in the dawning light, for a hint in the brush. He finally found one, and held up his hand. “This way!” he said, pointing to the west, and then took off again.
Jason and Abe followed, although it was obvious that Abe had more confidence in Rafe’s tracking skills than Jason had. As for Jason, he was busy being torn up by Ward’s near death, and praying that he’d survive. This would kill Jenny, he knew. It was already killing him.
Damn the West, anyway! It was nothing but a place where men went to die when they could have stayed back East and lived long, productive lives.
He was continuing this train of thought when Rafe suddenly reined up. He and Abe did, too.
“What?” he asked.
“He’s up ahead.”
“Of course, he’s up ahead! We’re followin’ him!”
“No,” said Rafe. “Right up ahead. Behind those rocks, on the right.” He indicated a tumble of large boulders, each as tall as a man if not taller.
Jason considered this possibility. “Then why doesn’t he shoot us right now?”
“Sun’s in his eyes,” Abe said quietly. “He’s waitin’ for us to get closer or the sun to rise a little higher, whichever comes first.”
“I say we don’t give him time for either one,” Jason said. “Can we sneak around the far side of those rocks? Way back up there, on the north?”
“Better’n waitin’ to get shot like Ward. C’mon, Rafe,” Abe said.
Rafe turned toward them, skirted a bed of manzanita, and began to follow them back to the north.
They took a wide, circuitous route that Jason hoped would keep them out of range—pistol range, anyway—and at last came to the northern-most point of the rock pile. Jason signaled the men to be quiet and on their guard. He couldn’t be certain that Davis hadn’t figured out their plan. Davis could easily be waiting for them, his guns drawn, ready and willing to commit triple homicide.
Jason dismounted, ground-tied Cleo, and tentatively walked to the edge of the last boulder. He peeked around the back side of it.