Alias: The Hangman From Hell by Franklin D. Lincoln
They traveled steadily northward for the rest of the day; keeping alert for hostiles. Both men knew that when you couldn’t see them, it didn’t mean that they weren’t there. At the least unsuspecting moment they could appear out of nowhere with all of their savage fury.
The day passed uneventfully. They stopped to rest and to water their horse periodically, but kept a steady pace.
As the sun began to lower in the western sky, The Kid, now riding behind his rescuer on the back of the big black horse, turned to look back on the trail behind them. He saw no movement, no dust trails. He figured that by now they must have passed over the border into Texas.
That being the case, one of his problems was for sure behind him. The New Mexico posse, if they had continued their pursuit, would no longer have any jurisdiction and would not be able to trail him into Texas.
By nightfall, the riders had followed the trail to a grassy plain on top of a plateau. They stopped to make camp at the base of a rocky wall that extended upward from the edge of it.
Far to the left of them the grassy plain ended and fell away to a rock cliff that extended two hundred feet to the flatlands below.
They made a fire beneath a rock outcropping, ceiling the smoke. They rolled large rocks in front of the fire for added concealment, hiding its flickering glow in the dark.
The Kid had borrowed the dark man’s rifle and wandered out into a wooded area back down the trail from where they had come. When he returned he had two rabbits, which he skinned and cleaned. He cut the meat into chunks and they cooked them in a small skillet over the fire.
When the meal was over and the utensils cleaned and packed away, both men settled back against the rock wall and rested.
The day had been long and travel had been hard. Neither man had had any inclination toward conversation. Now as they both relaxed, their occasional words drifted away from the necessities of the day and conversation began to ensue.
The Kid avoided asking questions of the man for to do so would invite the man to question him also.
Laredo was cleaning his pistol, which had been retrieved from the stream before making their escape. He had borrowed some oil from the dark man and a piece of emery cloth. He worked diligently at the weapon, drying the parts completely and scraping away the start of rust left by the water. He lubricated each part thoroughly.
He reassembled the weapon, tested its motion, twirled the cylinder and worked the hammer back and forth, squeezing the trigger repeatedly and letting the hammer fall on empty chambers.
He handed the small can of oil back to his companion. “Thanks again, Mister,” he said. He began loading the chambers with the cartridges lying beside him. “Lucky for me you came along when you did,” The Kid said absently, still shoving shells into the pistol and not looking at the man.
“The name’s Henry,” the man offered as if it just came out of the blue.
The Kid halted his reloading and thought a moment. Here it comes, he mused in his head; the question. He headed it off. “Glad to meet you, Henry,” Laredo said quickly, slamming the last round into the cylinder. He didn’t offer his name.
“Dillard,” Henry added. “Henry Dillard.” He noticed that no name was being offered by his companion. “Does that mean anything to you son?”
“No. Should it?” Laredo shoved the pistol into his holster. “You a gunman or something? With a rep?”
“No. No. nothing like that.”
“Lawman?” Laredo tried not to let the word sound strained, although he was thinking that it would be just his luck to be rescued by a law dog. Out of the frying pan, into the fire.
Dillard chuckled. “Not exactly.”
A chill ran up The Kid’s spine and he said icily, “What do you mean, ‘not exactly’?” His fingers stilled lingered close to his gun butt.
“Nothing, son,” he answered noticing a trace of hostility in The Kid’s voice. “I’ve done some cleanup for the law a time or two. You might say I’m a janitor of sorts. Just traveling from town to town picking up whatever work needs to be done.”
He stood up, removed his long black duster and folded it into a square. He bent to his knees on his blanket and placed the folded duster at the top of it to be used as a pillow. He removed his hat, placed it next to the duster, stretched out and rolled into the blanket.
“Best we get an early start, come first light,” he said as he settled into the blanket, wriggling back and forth, trying to get comfortable on the hard ground. He said nothing more.
Laredo watched the man for several moments, wondering why he had not pushed him to talk about himself. Either Dillard knew who he was, or long time experience on the trail had taught him not to pry into another man’s business. Hopefully it was the latter.
Finally, The Kid decided he should get some sleep also. He slid downward from his sitting position, to lay full length on the ground. He pulled his blanket around him and rolled onto his side, so he could slide his left arm beneath his head for a pillow.
Beneath the blanket, Laredo held his pistol against his chest, his right hand holding tight on the grip with his thumb on the hammer.
He lay quiet for some time, listening to the night sounds around him. Henry Dillard’s even breathing joined those sounds and turned into a snore.
The Kid relaxed and drifted off to sleep.
It was near morning when Laredo jerked himself wide awake, fighting the urge to leap from his blanket. He forced himself to lie motionless. Listening. It was still dark, but the sky was beginning to tinge with gray. At first, all he heard were night sounds, but after a moment he heard once more what had jolted him awake.
Down the back trail, he heard the clink of iron horseshoes on rock. The creak of saddle leather and the chink of bridle bits and trappings confirmed his fears. Rider were coming this way. Comanches? Posse? The thoughts raced through his brain. He glanced over at Dillard. The man was still asleep, lying on his back; mouth wide open and snoring loudly.
The Kid lay quiet, waiting, watching, and listening. The sounds were coming closer. He heard a man’s voice and another voice answered him. The words were muted and Laredo couldn’t make them out. At least now he knew they were not Comanches, he told himself, for the voices sounded more like white men.
His eyes darted back and forth, peering into the darkness, trying to get a glimpse of the approaching riders. His grip tightened on his pistol. His palms were sweaty, and even in the chill of near morning, he felt a trickle of sweat slide down his temple.
Closer and closer the sounds came and then the riders suddenly emerged from around the outcropping. Their steady pace never slowed for they hadn’t seen the fire that was hidden by rocks and already burning low to almost embers.
Laredo bolted upwards to a sitting position. His pistol lashed out, held shoulder high and the click of the hammer being pulled into place, was loud in the darkness.
“Hold it right there,” Laredo shouted.
The riders pulled up sharply. There were three of them. The horses reared and stomped with startle and the riders fought to bring them under control.
“Whoa. Whoa there, Mister,” a deep voice sounded from the middle rider as he brought his mount under control and holding hands high, filled with reins.
Dillard jerked awake and sat up quickly, reaching for the rifle propped against the tree next to him. “What the Sam Hill….?” He muttered as he came awake, lunging to his feet and bringing the rifle up.
“Don’t shoot, fellas,” the rider with the deep voice continued. “We’re just travelers. Meaning no harm.”
The Kid had come to his feet now, his pistol thrust out before him, a snarl on his lips. “Who are you and what are you doing out here this time of night.”
The riders had calmed their startled horses by now. “Like I said,” the middle rider continued. “We’re just travelers. We didn’t see your camp. Otherwise, we would have announced ourselves before approaching. You concealed your camp very well.”
The insinuation was that
Laredo and his partner were in hiding.
“That’s no business of ours, though. If a man needs to hide his camp, that’s his own business.”
“We just came through Comanche country,” Dillard offered by the way of explanation, when Laredo didn’t bother. The Kid didn’t think any explanation was necessary. “We weren’t sure if we were still in danger,” Dillard continued.
“Comanches don’t often drift this far north,” the rider added. “You’re in Texas now. About fifteen miles south of Plainview.”
“That’s good to hear, Mister,” Dillard said, lowering his rifle. “I’m on my way to Plainview myself.”
“Is that right? You got business there?”
“I might,” Dillard said coldly, a hint of suspicion returned to his dark eyes and he raised the rifle barrel slightly. “You still haven’t told us what you’re doing out here, this time of night. Usually, only coyotes, wolves, and other varmints are out prowling in the dark.”
“Well, you see, Mister. Me and my friends here,” he thumbed toward the riders on each side of him. “are off our home range. We just delivered some horses to Plainview for our boss. We kinda went on a toot and let time get away from us. So, we been traveling all night to get back to the ranch by morning. If we’re not there when the boss gets up, we’re gonna be in deep trouble.”
“Then you best get on your way,” Laredo said icily and stepping back out of their way to let them pass.
“Well, you know, kid,” the rider started. Laredo didn’t like the way he called him kid. It could be just a natural euphemism or did he in fact recognize him as the man known as The Laredo Kid? “Like I said, we been traveling all night. We’re tired and our horses are tired. You got a fire going there. If you’ve got a spot of coffee to spare, we’d be much obliged.”
“Maybe, you ought to keep……,” Laredo started to say but Dillard cut in.
“I don’t see any harm in letting them stay awhile, son. Why don’t you stoke up the fire and put on a pot. I’ll watch these gents.”
“No need for that, Pop,” the rider said.
Dillard winced at the word ‘pop’.
“Maybe on second thought,” Dillard raised the rifle muzzle higher.
“Didn’t mean no offense, Mister,” the rider said, patting the air in front of him, palms upward. “I didn’t mean to imply that you’re old. I just meant……”
“I know what you meant,” Dillard answered. “Forget it though. Light a spell if you want.”
The three riders dismounted and led their horses forward until they came into the glow of the campfire that Laredo had just stoked into new life.
“My names Tolbert,” The leader who had been talking all along said. “Ben Tolbert. These are my two pals, Art Slocum,” he nodded to his left, “and Dan Greer.” He indicated the other.
They were a rough looking trio. Their clothes were dirty and crusty as if they had been repeatedly soaked in sweat and dried against their bodies.
Their faces were covered with thick stubble. The man calling himself Ben Tolbert, had a heavy black beard, similar to Dillard’s, but scruffier. He was a big man. Well above six feet tall. His shoulders were broad and his upper body tapered into the top of his jeans, although his stomach drooped in a bit of a paunch over his belt, but somewhat hidden by the brown leather vest that covered most of his faded blue checkered shirt.
Like his two companions, he wore a Colt .45 with a well worn pistol butt protruding from an also well worn leather holster.
The other two men were smaller, though Slocum was stocky with a thick middle and was approaching middle age.
Greer, on the other hand, was slim and much younger than his companions.
They picketed their horses next to Dillard’s black and then gathered around the fire.
The first hint of early morning gray was lurking above the eastern horizon and faint traces of red streaks were beginning to appear as the newcomers finished their coffee. Tolbert glanced at the sky. “Well boys,” he said putting down his cup. “Looks like we’re going to be late getting home after all. Best we get moving.” He stood up gazing down on the others. Dillard and Laredo started to rise.
“No need for you fellers to disturb yourselves. Just stay settin’ where you are.” He nodded to his men. “Come on, boys. You ready?”
By the time his two compadres climbed to their feet and brushed off the seats of their britches, Dillard and The Kid were already on their feet. Dillard had left his rifle on the ground and Laredo’s pistol was still in his holster.
The three men stepped to their horses, untied them and climbed into the saddles. They sidled their mounts out of the grassy area and pulled up beside their hosts.
“Much obliged, pardners,” Tolbert said cheerfully. He started to turn his horse, but then, almost as an afterthought, he reined up hard and gazed down at Dillard. “You said your name was Dillard? Henry Dillard?”
Dillard nodded.
Tolbert smoothed his reins the entire length, again starting to turn his mount, but halted momentarily and stepped it back a bit. As he swung around to face Dillard, his hand was filled with a Colt .45. His face had turned grim and fierce looking. “That’s what I thought you said.” He squeezed the trigger. The sound of the report echoed against the stone wall behind them. The last thing Henry Dillard saw was the stabbing flame from the gun’s muzzle. The force of the slug drove him backward, lifting him off the ground and dropping him on his back into the camp fire.
The movement had been quick, but Laredo, always on guard, glimpsed the pistol in Tolbert’s fist as he first turned around. His fist flashed downward and pulled the .45 free of its freshly oiled holster. He fired instinctively at Tolbert as he dived sideways and headlong behind a rock.
Tolbert had already swung his revolver toward The Kid and squeezed off a second shot at Laredo as he landed hard on the ground behind cover.
Tolbert winced and slumped sideways grabbing at the gash across the top of his left shoulder, with his right hand which was still filled with the pistol. Bright red liquid oozed from the wound and dripped through his fingers.
Slocum and Greer had already turned their mounts back and were laying down fire around the rock where Laredo lay hidden.
The Kid reached around the side of the rock and fired blindly two times, careful not to risk raising his head and peering out for a good aim.
Pieces of stone chipped off the rock as bullets pelted The Kid’s fortress, pinning him down.
Tolbert, still trying to stay the flow of blood, jerked his head upward, glancing back along the trail. Even above the sound of the shooting, he heard the approaching horsemen. “Let’s get out of here,” he shouted to his companions, wheeling his mount and kicking him forward into a feverish gallop. The shooting stopped and his companions followed after him.
Hearing them ride off, Laredo rose above the rock. He fired two more shots after the riders, but they were already out of pistol range.
Glancing to his left he could see Henry Dillard lying in the fire. Flames had taken hold of his clothing and had burst into tall streaming ribbons of fire.
Laredo sheathed his weapon as he ran toward the burning man. Dillard’s whole body was engulfed in flames now. Only the lower parts of his legs and boots protruded outside the fire. The Kid grasped the leather boots and flinched, pulling his hands away from them, burned by the hot leather.
He reached again, this time expecting the extreme heat and once again grasped the boots, pulling Dillard’s flaming body back out of the campfire. He released his grip as he pulled the body free, then clawed at the dirt around him, throwing it onto the flames, furiously trying to cover the consuming fire.
He was still working feverishly when strong hands grasped his shoulders and pulled him backwards. He struggled against the assault, but there were too many of them. There were at least two pairs of hands holding him down. His flailing arms and hands were pulled back and pinned to the ground, but still The Kid continued to struggle. As h
is strength waned, his struggle began to subside with defeat and Laredo’s eyes began to focus on the rugged, tanned face that loomed above him.
“Take it easy, mister.” The man’s voice was firm and commanding. A sheriff’s star was pinned to his faded gray shirt.
*****
Chapter Five
The day passed uneventfully. They stopped to rest and to water their horse periodically, but kept a steady pace.
As the sun began to lower in the western sky, The Kid, now riding behind his rescuer on the back of the big black horse, turned to look back on the trail behind them. He saw no movement, no dust trails. He figured that by now they must have passed over the border into Texas.
That being the case, one of his problems was for sure behind him. The New Mexico posse, if they had continued their pursuit, would no longer have any jurisdiction and would not be able to trail him into Texas.
By nightfall, the riders had followed the trail to a grassy plain on top of a plateau. They stopped to make camp at the base of a rocky wall that extended upward from the edge of it.
Far to the left of them the grassy plain ended and fell away to a rock cliff that extended two hundred feet to the flatlands below.
They made a fire beneath a rock outcropping, ceiling the smoke. They rolled large rocks in front of the fire for added concealment, hiding its flickering glow in the dark.
The Kid had borrowed the dark man’s rifle and wandered out into a wooded area back down the trail from where they had come. When he returned he had two rabbits, which he skinned and cleaned. He cut the meat into chunks and they cooked them in a small skillet over the fire.
When the meal was over and the utensils cleaned and packed away, both men settled back against the rock wall and rested.
The day had been long and travel had been hard. Neither man had had any inclination toward conversation. Now as they both relaxed, their occasional words drifted away from the necessities of the day and conversation began to ensue.
The Kid avoided asking questions of the man for to do so would invite the man to question him also.
Laredo was cleaning his pistol, which had been retrieved from the stream before making their escape. He had borrowed some oil from the dark man and a piece of emery cloth. He worked diligently at the weapon, drying the parts completely and scraping away the start of rust left by the water. He lubricated each part thoroughly.
He reassembled the weapon, tested its motion, twirled the cylinder and worked the hammer back and forth, squeezing the trigger repeatedly and letting the hammer fall on empty chambers.
He handed the small can of oil back to his companion. “Thanks again, Mister,” he said. He began loading the chambers with the cartridges lying beside him. “Lucky for me you came along when you did,” The Kid said absently, still shoving shells into the pistol and not looking at the man.
“The name’s Henry,” the man offered as if it just came out of the blue.
The Kid halted his reloading and thought a moment. Here it comes, he mused in his head; the question. He headed it off. “Glad to meet you, Henry,” Laredo said quickly, slamming the last round into the cylinder. He didn’t offer his name.
“Dillard,” Henry added. “Henry Dillard.” He noticed that no name was being offered by his companion. “Does that mean anything to you son?”
“No. Should it?” Laredo shoved the pistol into his holster. “You a gunman or something? With a rep?”
“No. No. nothing like that.”
“Lawman?” Laredo tried not to let the word sound strained, although he was thinking that it would be just his luck to be rescued by a law dog. Out of the frying pan, into the fire.
Dillard chuckled. “Not exactly.”
A chill ran up The Kid’s spine and he said icily, “What do you mean, ‘not exactly’?” His fingers stilled lingered close to his gun butt.
“Nothing, son,” he answered noticing a trace of hostility in The Kid’s voice. “I’ve done some cleanup for the law a time or two. You might say I’m a janitor of sorts. Just traveling from town to town picking up whatever work needs to be done.”
He stood up, removed his long black duster and folded it into a square. He bent to his knees on his blanket and placed the folded duster at the top of it to be used as a pillow. He removed his hat, placed it next to the duster, stretched out and rolled into the blanket.
“Best we get an early start, come first light,” he said as he settled into the blanket, wriggling back and forth, trying to get comfortable on the hard ground. He said nothing more.
Laredo watched the man for several moments, wondering why he had not pushed him to talk about himself. Either Dillard knew who he was, or long time experience on the trail had taught him not to pry into another man’s business. Hopefully it was the latter.
Finally, The Kid decided he should get some sleep also. He slid downward from his sitting position, to lay full length on the ground. He pulled his blanket around him and rolled onto his side, so he could slide his left arm beneath his head for a pillow.
Beneath the blanket, Laredo held his pistol against his chest, his right hand holding tight on the grip with his thumb on the hammer.
He lay quiet for some time, listening to the night sounds around him. Henry Dillard’s even breathing joined those sounds and turned into a snore.
The Kid relaxed and drifted off to sleep.
It was near morning when Laredo jerked himself wide awake, fighting the urge to leap from his blanket. He forced himself to lie motionless. Listening. It was still dark, but the sky was beginning to tinge with gray. At first, all he heard were night sounds, but after a moment he heard once more what had jolted him awake.
Down the back trail, he heard the clink of iron horseshoes on rock. The creak of saddle leather and the chink of bridle bits and trappings confirmed his fears. Rider were coming this way. Comanches? Posse? The thoughts raced through his brain. He glanced over at Dillard. The man was still asleep, lying on his back; mouth wide open and snoring loudly.
The Kid lay quiet, waiting, watching, and listening. The sounds were coming closer. He heard a man’s voice and another voice answered him. The words were muted and Laredo couldn’t make them out. At least now he knew they were not Comanches, he told himself, for the voices sounded more like white men.
His eyes darted back and forth, peering into the darkness, trying to get a glimpse of the approaching riders. His grip tightened on his pistol. His palms were sweaty, and even in the chill of near morning, he felt a trickle of sweat slide down his temple.
Closer and closer the sounds came and then the riders suddenly emerged from around the outcropping. Their steady pace never slowed for they hadn’t seen the fire that was hidden by rocks and already burning low to almost embers.
Laredo bolted upwards to a sitting position. His pistol lashed out, held shoulder high and the click of the hammer being pulled into place, was loud in the darkness.
“Hold it right there,” Laredo shouted.
The riders pulled up sharply. There were three of them. The horses reared and stomped with startle and the riders fought to bring them under control.
“Whoa. Whoa there, Mister,” a deep voice sounded from the middle rider as he brought his mount under control and holding hands high, filled with reins.
Dillard jerked awake and sat up quickly, reaching for the rifle propped against the tree next to him. “What the Sam Hill….?” He muttered as he came awake, lunging to his feet and bringing the rifle up.
“Don’t shoot, fellas,” the rider with the deep voice continued. “We’re just travelers. Meaning no harm.”
The Kid had come to his feet now, his pistol thrust out before him, a snarl on his lips. “Who are you and what are you doing out here this time of night.”
The riders had calmed their startled horses by now. “Like I said,” the middle rider continued. “We’re just travelers. We didn’t see your camp. Otherwise, we would have announced ourselves before approaching. You concealed your camp very well.”
The insinuation was that
“That’s no business of ours, though. If a man needs to hide his camp, that’s his own business.”
“We just came through Comanche country,” Dillard offered by the way of explanation, when Laredo didn’t bother. The Kid didn’t think any explanation was necessary. “We weren’t sure if we were still in danger,” Dillard continued.
“Comanches don’t often drift this far north,” the rider added. “You’re in Texas now. About fifteen miles south of Plainview.”
“That’s good to hear, Mister,” Dillard said, lowering his rifle. “I’m on my way to Plainview myself.”
“Is that right? You got business there?”
“I might,” Dillard said coldly, a hint of suspicion returned to his dark eyes and he raised the rifle barrel slightly. “You still haven’t told us what you’re doing out here, this time of night. Usually, only coyotes, wolves, and other varmints are out prowling in the dark.”
“Well, you see, Mister. Me and my friends here,” he thumbed toward the riders on each side of him. “are off our home range. We just delivered some horses to Plainview for our boss. We kinda went on a toot and let time get away from us. So, we been traveling all night to get back to the ranch by morning. If we’re not there when the boss gets up, we’re gonna be in deep trouble.”
“Then you best get on your way,” Laredo said icily and stepping back out of their way to let them pass.
“Well, you know, kid,” the rider started. Laredo didn’t like the way he called him kid. It could be just a natural euphemism or did he in fact recognize him as the man known as The Laredo Kid? “Like I said, we been traveling all night. We’re tired and our horses are tired. You got a fire going there. If you’ve got a spot of coffee to spare, we’d be much obliged.”
“Maybe, you ought to keep……,” Laredo started to say but Dillard cut in.
“I don’t see any harm in letting them stay awhile, son. Why don’t you stoke up the fire and put on a pot. I’ll watch these gents.”
“No need for that, Pop,” the rider said.
Dillard winced at the word ‘pop’.
“Maybe on second thought,” Dillard raised the rifle muzzle higher.
“Didn’t mean no offense, Mister,” the rider said, patting the air in front of him, palms upward. “I didn’t mean to imply that you’re old. I just meant……”
“I know what you meant,” Dillard answered. “Forget it though. Light a spell if you want.”
The three riders dismounted and led their horses forward until they came into the glow of the campfire that Laredo had just stoked into new life.
“My names Tolbert,” The leader who had been talking all along said. “Ben Tolbert. These are my two pals, Art Slocum,” he nodded to his left, “and Dan Greer.” He indicated the other.
They were a rough looking trio. Their clothes were dirty and crusty as if they had been repeatedly soaked in sweat and dried against their bodies.
Their faces were covered with thick stubble. The man calling himself Ben Tolbert, had a heavy black beard, similar to Dillard’s, but scruffier. He was a big man. Well above six feet tall. His shoulders were broad and his upper body tapered into the top of his jeans, although his stomach drooped in a bit of a paunch over his belt, but somewhat hidden by the brown leather vest that covered most of his faded blue checkered shirt.
Like his two companions, he wore a Colt .45 with a well worn pistol butt protruding from an also well worn leather holster.
The other two men were smaller, though Slocum was stocky with a thick middle and was approaching middle age.
Greer, on the other hand, was slim and much younger than his companions.
They picketed their horses next to Dillard’s black and then gathered around the fire.
The first hint of early morning gray was lurking above the eastern horizon and faint traces of red streaks were beginning to appear as the newcomers finished their coffee. Tolbert glanced at the sky. “Well boys,” he said putting down his cup. “Looks like we’re going to be late getting home after all. Best we get moving.” He stood up gazing down on the others. Dillard and Laredo started to rise.
“No need for you fellers to disturb yourselves. Just stay settin’ where you are.” He nodded to his men. “Come on, boys. You ready?”
By the time his two compadres climbed to their feet and brushed off the seats of their britches, Dillard and The Kid were already on their feet. Dillard had left his rifle on the ground and Laredo’s pistol was still in his holster.
The three men stepped to their horses, untied them and climbed into the saddles. They sidled their mounts out of the grassy area and pulled up beside their hosts.
“Much obliged, pardners,” Tolbert said cheerfully. He started to turn his horse, but then, almost as an afterthought, he reined up hard and gazed down at Dillard. “You said your name was Dillard? Henry Dillard?”
Dillard nodded.
Tolbert smoothed his reins the entire length, again starting to turn his mount, but halted momentarily and stepped it back a bit. As he swung around to face Dillard, his hand was filled with a Colt .45. His face had turned grim and fierce looking. “That’s what I thought you said.” He squeezed the trigger. The sound of the report echoed against the stone wall behind them. The last thing Henry Dillard saw was the stabbing flame from the gun’s muzzle. The force of the slug drove him backward, lifting him off the ground and dropping him on his back into the camp fire.
The movement had been quick, but Laredo, always on guard, glimpsed the pistol in Tolbert’s fist as he first turned around. His fist flashed downward and pulled the .45 free of its freshly oiled holster. He fired instinctively at Tolbert as he dived sideways and headlong behind a rock.
Tolbert had already swung his revolver toward The Kid and squeezed off a second shot at Laredo as he landed hard on the ground behind cover.
Tolbert winced and slumped sideways grabbing at the gash across the top of his left shoulder, with his right hand which was still filled with the pistol. Bright red liquid oozed from the wound and dripped through his fingers.
Slocum and Greer had already turned their mounts back and were laying down fire around the rock where Laredo lay hidden.
The Kid reached around the side of the rock and fired blindly two times, careful not to risk raising his head and peering out for a good aim.
Pieces of stone chipped off the rock as bullets pelted The Kid’s fortress, pinning him down.
Tolbert, still trying to stay the flow of blood, jerked his head upward, glancing back along the trail. Even above the sound of the shooting, he heard the approaching horsemen. “Let’s get out of here,” he shouted to his companions, wheeling his mount and kicking him forward into a feverish gallop. The shooting stopped and his companions followed after him.
Hearing them ride off, Laredo rose above the rock. He fired two more shots after the riders, but they were already out of pistol range.
Glancing to his left he could see Henry Dillard lying in the fire. Flames had taken hold of his clothing and had burst into tall streaming ribbons of fire.
Laredo sheathed his weapon as he ran toward the burning man. Dillard’s whole body was engulfed in flames now. Only the lower parts of his legs and boots protruded outside the fire. The Kid grasped the leather boots and flinched, pulling his hands away from them, burned by the hot leather.
He reached again, this time expecting the extreme heat and once again grasped the boots, pulling Dillard’s flaming body back out of the campfire. He released his grip as he pulled the body free, then clawed at the dirt around him, throwing it onto the flames, furiously trying to cover the consuming fire.
He was still working feverishly when strong hands grasped his shoulders and pulled him backwards. He struggled against the assault, but there were too many of them. There were at least two pairs of hands holding him down. His flailing arms and hands were pulled back and pinned to the ground, but still The Kid continued to struggle. As h
“Take it easy, mister.” The man’s voice was firm and commanding. A sheriff’s star was pinned to his faded gray shirt.
*****
Chapter Five