The Baron of Coyote River

  And once they were safe, they immediately began to devise ways and means of starting the animals milling.

  From the pass there burst the cattle, running with their heads up, bellowing as though pursued by all the fiends in hell. The avalanche of bodies ran like a brown river across the center of the basin toward the other side, following the leaders and the leaders running blind.

  Now that the thunder was not pent up in the pass, men could hear themselves.

  “Turn them to the right!” bellowed Fallon.

  “Turn them to the right!” echoed through the basin.

  Lance and Tyler headed for the ranch houses, choosing that place as the best point to defend. They had no illusions about their fate. They were penned up in the basin and they’d never get out alive if they were found. And that they would be found depended only upon the ticking seconds.

  Tyler flung himself off his horse and sprinted for the bunkhouse, carrying the rifle he had whisked from the saddle boot and the saddlebags which would contain ammunition. Lance was close behind him, carrying a Sharps.

  They slammed the door behind them and in the pale shaft of the dust-dimmed moon, regarded each other.

  “You look like an end man in a minstrel show,” panted Tyler.

  Lance looked at the other’s dust-caked face, grinning. “Guess so, and you wouldn’t take any beauty prize yourself. That was touch and go for a minute.”

  “Touch and go is right. I heard angel’s wings aflutterin’ over my head and Saint Pete was already openin’ up his gates, ready to say, ‘Hello, Tyler. Git down and come in.’”

  “That wasn’t Saint Pete,” said Lance. “That was a feller with a pitchfork and long horns. Look, they’re turnin’ ’em.”

  They both peered through a grimy window and saw that the herd had started to circle, still running but slowing down in bewilderment.

  “Wonder what started ’em off.”

  Lance shook his head. “They was always a spooky bunch. Fast brandin’ must have set their nerves on edge. You got plenty of shells for that Henry?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well, get ’em ready. Here comes Fallon.”

  Tyler shoved the Henry’s muzzle out through the window. “That means they won’t move ’em again tonight.”

  “Herd and boys all wore out, I reckon,” said Lance. “If they would trail, we wouldn’t have to worry.”

  “Who’s worryin’?” said Tyler, squinting down the sights. “Might as well start hostilities now while the startin’s good.”

  Fallon reined in before the corral and looked back at the men who were calming the cattle. Then he dismounted and strode toward the bunkhouse.

  “Wait,” said Lance, laying his hand to block the sights. “Let him come in.”

  Fallon threw back the door and strode into the dim interior. He did not see the two men until Lance spoke.

  “Sit down, Fallon,” said Lance. “A man owes himself a rest after a ride like that.”

  Fallon tried to go for his gun, but Lance slammed him back against the wall.

  “That ain’t exactly healthy, Fallon,” said Lance. Working with a broken riata, he trussed Fallon and lugged him to a bunk. Laying him inside, he tucked a ragged blanket under his chin. “Don’t mind us,” said Lance, “just doze off. You look plumb wore out.”

  Fallon glared and muttered something vile into his gag. Lance went back to the window. “Wasn’t any use givin’ ourselves away just yet.”

  “You’re right,” said Tyler. “Look, who’s that big gent on the black horse? Somebody told me Napoleon looked like that, settin’ on a knoll, watchin’ a battle.”

  “That’s the Baron,” said Lance. “Fancy, ain’t he. Wonder if I could dust him a little with this Sharps.” He took the heavy, single-shot weapon and adjusted the sights. “Hard to shoot by moonlight. What would you say that range was?”

  Tyler pushed Lance’s gun muzzle away. “Here, wait a minute yourself. I got me an idea.”

  Tyler went out of the bunkhouse and mounted Fallon’s horse. Then he ran rapidly about the ’dobe three times to attract attention. Finally he paused and looked up at the knoll. He swung his arm in an imperative “come here” signal.

  The Baron looked down for several seconds and then, with a glance to make certain that the herd was getting into some sort of shape, started down the hill toward the bunkhouse.

  Tyler swung down and strode toward the door, entering.

  Presently the Baron got down outside and pushed the door open with his foot.

  “Fallon?” said the Baron. “What’s the matter . . .”

  But the dim shape which moved toward him was not Fallon. The Baron yelled, whipped a gun from his shoulder holster and, before Lance could strike it down, fired hastily.

  Lance came up from his crouch and sent a hard fist into the Baron’s jaw. The short gun went spinning.

  “Hey!” cried Tyler. “They’re coming!” He started to leave the window and join in the fight, but he turned back and fired at a horseman who had popped up on the other side of the corral. Once more he tried to break away, but three men were coming. He jacked another shell into the Henry and fired a second time.

  The Baron braced himself and jumped to the attack. Lance had not drawn before and there was no time now. Lance met the Baron’s rush with a well-timed left which sent the bigger man skidding into the table. The table spread its legs and went down.

  Lance launched himself across the room, but the Baron was up before he could get there. They stood firmly in the center of the floor, slugging as men slug when they are used to the quicker defense of powder smoke.

  “Finish him,” begged Tyler from the window. “They’re surroundin’ us!” Again he tried to find time to stop the fight, but the sudden appearance of a man directly before the ’dobe brought him again to the window and the Henry.

  Lance set himself. The Baron charged. Lance brought all his weight into one blow. The Baron met it with his chin and staggered back, his arms going like a windmill. He struck the bunks with his head and rebounded into a savage chest blow.

  The Baron went down, limply and finally. With a softly spoken word of thanks, Lance picked up the rest of the riata and hogtied the unconscious man. Fallon writhed in the bunk.

  “You take the other side,” cried Tyler. “I got my tally here, but they don’t know enough to go and hide.”

  Lance cocked his .45 and thrust it through the window. A bullet snapped eagerly beside his ear.

  “It’s that feller said he was Windy Green!” came a cry from without.

  “Get him!” cried another.

  “It’ll be up in two minutes,” said Tyler. “These gents is killers.”

  Lance was finding that out. A steady volleying from the shadows of other ’dobes and from a ramshackle hay barn made his position untenable. His face was gashed with flying splinters. A chip was gone from his ear and his collar stuck to the back of his neck.

  But he managed to get in a few shots. A gunslinger spilled out of cover, his hat rolling away from him and his arms flopping out as though to retrieve it. Another rolled limply from the hay barn loft.

  “Look at the powder they’re wastin’,” jeered Tyler, from across the room.

  A group of men formed to charge the door, suddenly remembering that from that side there were no loopholes.

  “It’s all up,” said Lance. “S’long, Tyler.”

  “S’long, pardner. Too bad we didn’t get elected to Congress.”

  The firing outside doubled, trebled, as though the men were trying to cover the attack.

  Abruptly bullets stopped whacking through the room. Tyler and Lance, braced for one final stand, were mystified.

  “Don’t that beat hell?” said Tyler.

  “What’s happening out ther
e?”

  Men were running out of cover and heading for the other ’dobes. Lance crossed the room to Tyler’s side, watching.

  “Didn’t know we was that dangerous,” said Tyler.

  “No use lettin’ ’em go in there,” said Lance. He fired swiftly at the door of the other ’dobe and the men stumbled over the body of the first one to enter. The crowd turned back in haste and tried to dive to other shelter.

  And then horses and riders came out of nowhere and things moved so fast that no man could tell what was happening.

  Lance and Tyler felt like actors who have had the show stolen from them. But they pegged relentlessly at the Baron’s men who still scurried about.

  The moonlight struck through the dust and lit up brass buttons and gleaming sabers. Anderson swept like a mounted whirlwind through the fray, revolver cracking.

  “The cavalry,” said Lance in wonder.

  “And there’s Brant,” cried Tyler. “Maybe I better plug him now before he makes trouble for us.”

  “He won’t make any trouble for us,” said Lance. “Hell, man, we’re heroes, get it? We’re the fellers that stood off the whole gang and made this possible.”

  Things had quieted outside and Lance and Tyler thought the opportunity to show themselves had come. They stepped out of the ’dobe and walked up to Anderson, smiling at the officer and quite ready to receive praise.

  “There they are!” somebody sang out.

  Anderson wheeled his horse and brought up his revolver. “Stand where you are, men.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Tyler. “We done all this. We got the Baron and Fallon in there for you, all tied up.”

  “Get in there,” barked Anderson to a pair of troopers. And to Brant and some more of his men he said, “Take these two men and herd them with the rest.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Tyler. “You can’t do this. Lance and me have been fighting this here gang and we saved you a lot of trouble. Ain’t you got no gratitude?”

  “I know nothing about that,” said Anderson. “You men are under arrest and you’ll probably hang. You know you killed two men when you raided Santos?”

  “Two men?” said Lance. “Raided Santos? You’re crazy as a strychnined wolf. We didn’t raid Santos. We went there to send a telegram. Any law against sendin’ a telegram?”

  “You killed two men,” repeated Anderson. “Get over there or I’ll drill you.”

  The two troopers came out with the Baron and Fallon and Anderson’s attention was diverted to them.

  The Baron looked very rumpled and crestfallen. Fallon cringed.

  “I’ve got orders to place you men under arrest,” said Anderson. “They’ll try you at Prescott and hang you. Those were the orders I received.”

  It was a dreary cavalcade that moved out of the basin under the moon. Men were holding the cattle for future reference, men from Santos.

  “An’ I lose my cows again,” mourned Tyler, riding with hands firmly tied to his pommel.

  Lance nodded. “Looks like there’s more’n two troops here.”

  “Uh-huh, some of these soldiers are down from Flagstaff, I reckon. Wonder how come they got down from there.”

  “I dunno,” said Lance, miserably. “You don’t suppose when Anderson really understands that we did him a good turn . . .”

  “Not a chance. I can tell he’s acting under military orders, and he shore can be military when he’s away from a faro table.”

  “Silence back there,” barked a sergeant.

  And with the other prisoners, the Baron among them, Lance and Tyler silently finished the ride back across the Coyote River and to Santos.

  A cheering populace met them. But the citizens of Santos barely knew the Baron and had not even seen the gunslingers from other ranges before. The citizens of Santos spotted Lance Gordon and Tyler and the shouts which came from the high walks were depressing.

  “So you will raid Santos!”

  “There they go, the murderers.”

  “They don’t look so pert now, do they?”

  “We’ll string ’em up!”

  “Looks like they’re sore at us,” said Tyler, dolefully. “We didn’t do nothin’.”

  They progressed the length of the street with the cavalry flanking them. Lance decided he had never seen a dawn so bleak and cold.

  “It’s all up,” mourned Tyler. “And I’ll never get another look at them pore cows. Wonder if they’ll use a firing squad.”

  They knew then that Anderson was merely parading them. The arrogant gunfighters exchanged glare for glare with the citizens and troopers. The Baron rode between the blue files with his head on his chest.

  Anderson held up his hand and stopped. He was abreast of the railway station and he could not resist a bit of showmanship for the town, which came closer to hear what he would say.

  The operator came out at Anderson’s signal and started to say something but Anderson silenced him.

  “Get me a blank,” said Anderson.

  The operator went back and got the blank and when he came out again he looked down the line toward Tyler and Lance Gordon. His eyes opened up a little and he smiled.

  “The son . . .” muttered Tyler.

  “Captain . . .” began the operator.

  But Anderson was going to do the talking. “Send this message to the War Department, Washington, DC. That’s right. Now write, ‘Beg to report that man known as Baron and gang have been put down and arrested. The Baron is now in custody with his men. Have also arrested notorious gunman named Lance Gordon and a bandit named Tyler.’”

  “Pardon me, sir,” said a lieutenant Santos did not know. “Aren’t you going to give the Flagstaff men any credit at all?”

  “Oh, certainly,” said Anderson with a smile. “Operator, add, ‘Raid was ably assisted by presence of Troops A and B from Flagstaff garrison.’”

  “That means a firing squad for us,” said Tyler, whispering. “Under territorial and military law, we’re practically in the army now.”

  In spite of the fact that he should not keep his tired men waiting, in answer to questions from the townsmen, Anderson leaned forward in his saddle, gauntleted hand poised on his saber hilt.

  “Oh, it was a brisk enough fight,” said Anderson. “We met the advance guard, surrounded them and took them, but the firing started a stampede of the cattle back through the pass. Then we rode after the herd, surrounded the main gang and shot it out with them. No, we only had one man wounded. Lucky, eh?”

  “Lucky, hell,” said Tyler in a loud voice. “We had the whole outfit jumping when you got there.”

  Anderson glared and a trooper prodded Tyler with a revolver.

  “It’ll come out at the trial,” said Lance. “Tyler and I were trying . . .”

  Another revolver prodded Lance.

  “We’d better move along,” said Anderson, nervously.

  “Wait a minute, sir,” said the telegraph operator. “I had a message for Tyler. I tried to tell you . . .”

  “Prisoners cannot receive messages,” said Anderson.

  Curiosity of Santos overrode Anderson’s order.

  “Let’s see what’s in it,” chorused the men along the platform.

  The operator smiled at Anderson, evidently enjoying a joke of his own and passed the message over to Tyler. As operator, he knew what it said. A trooper unlashed Tyler’s hands.

  Tyler read the operator’s precise handwriting and then read it again. He swore and read it a third time.

  “What’s it say?” said Lance.

  Tyler sat up importantly in spite of the warning revolver which pointed at him meaningly now that his hands were loose.

  “It says,” said Tyler, stifling a laugh, “it says: ‘M. R. Tyler, Santos, Territory of Arizon
a. This will advise you of your appointment as United States Deputy Marshal at large in Arizona Territory and will also advise Mr. Lance Gordon of a like appointment. I have advised the Attorney General of your sterling character and he acted upon my recommendation immediately. Confirming papers will follow by mail. Your first task is to act with the cavalry the Secretary of War is sending from Flagstaff. The matter of the Baron of course is part of your new duties. Officials at Prescott have been advised. Sam Thorpe, Asst. Atty. Gen.’”

  Anderson was so astounded he removed his hand from his sword hilt. “But that can’t take effect. You . . . you haven’t your badge of office. . . .”

  “And I don’t need none,” said Tyler. “My badge is in the mail and this appointment is dated three days ago, or two anyway.”

  “Then,” said Anderson, “you disgraced your office by raiding Santos and you therefore forfeit your badge.”

  “I did not,” said Tyler. “We wasn’t United States Deputy Marshals then. This appointment came afterwards. I know my law, I do.”

  “Take off these ropes,” ordered Lance.

  And when the ropes were stripped away, Lance reined his mount out from the file, moving beside Tyler.

  “Captain,” said Tyler, “you done a pretty good job for a soldier, bringin’ the prisoners in for us this way. Course we had them all rounded up first. You can give us a hand keepin’ ’em for the general hangin’ if you want. I’ll get us a United States district attorney down here to try ’em, this bein’ a territory and their act therefore a federal crime, so to speak.”

  Anderson glared, but he nevertheless reined back.

  “But,” said Anderson, “Gordon killed a deputy marshal in Los Gatos. He’s got to stand trial for that.”

  “Hell no,” said Tyler. “The Department of Justice just lost one and had to replace him, didn’t they? And Lance is quicker on the gun than MacLeod was. So they just wanted the fastest they could get on the draw and the test proved it. And if he does have to stand trial, this’ll fix it up, what he did tonight.”