Wanted: Dead or Alive Read online

  Coming to a decision, Dade drew his pistol and, jamming spurs into the gelding’s flanks, spurted from the brush into the open. The quick thudding of the gelding’s driving hoofs brought attention to him immediately. He saw the pair near the girl pause, look toward him. Leveling the .45, he sent a bullet at the one to his right. The rider jerked away, wheeled his horse about. The others, taking their cue from him, cut in beside him, began to move toward Lockett uncertainly.

  Dade threw two more shots directly at them. A yell of pain went up and a man near the center of the party clawed at his arm. Lockett grinned, triggered another bullet as he continued straight on. The line of night riders wavered. Their horses began to shy and mill nervously, making it difficult for the men astride them to get set and make use of their weapons with any effectiveness. Another cry of pain sounded, followed by a string of deep, harsh oaths. Immediately the party split, half lining out for the brush to the east while those remaining whirled, hammered for the corner of the house where they apparently hoped to make a stand.

  Lockett veered sharply as a burst of bullets whipped by him. He felt one pluck at his sleeve, another at his hat, and he grinned bleakly. Bending lower over the saddle, he emptied his pistol at the cluster of raiders, jammed the weapon back into its holster, and jerked the Henry repeater from the boot. Levering the rifle with one hand, he brought it up level and fired. At the blast of the heavier weapon the last of the riders pulled away, curved off into the closing darkness, and raced for the band of brush into which their friends had disappeared.

  Lockett brought the chestnut to a halt, his lean, hard-cut face turning toward the ragged growth beyond the yard where the night riders had sought safety. He was no man to fool himself; there were half a dozen of them, only one of him—and surprise had been on his side. This would become apparent to them shortly, and the chances were better than good they would take steps to rectify their poor showing. Best be ready.

  III

  At once Lockett raked the chestnut with his spurs and, pivoting, doubled back across the yard to where the girl crouched over the wounded rancher. Throwing himself from the saddle, he kneeled beside her.

  “Inside … we’re making mighty good targets out here,” he said, sliding his arms under the man’s body.

  The girl turned her strained, taut face to him. She would be no more than eighteen, he guessed, and badly frightened. Lips tight, she nodded and, coming to her feet, started for the house. Lockett, rising, glanced at the man in his arms as he followed. About the same age as the girl, possibly a year or two older. Husband and wife—or brother and sister? Dade wondered as he stepped into the usual combination kitchen, dining, and living room area of the ranch house. Kicking the door shut with a heel, he glanced inquiringly at the girl.

  “In there,” she replied, and pointed into an adjoining room.

  Dade carried the boy into the area, laid him on the bed banked against the rear wall. He seemed barely conscious although his injury appeared to be no more than a bad flesh wound in the leg.

  “There’s another one out back,” Lockett said then, moving toward the door.

  The girl’s features stiffened. “Renzo! Did they kill …?”

  “Don’t know. One of them rode him down. Could be he just got a bad bumping. I’ll fetch him,” Dade said, and then paused, made a motion at the windows. “Draw the shades. Got to block off the light.”

  Continuing then, he crossed the room to the rear door, pulled it open, and stepped out onto the narrow landing. The old man was sitting up near the woodpile dazedly rubbing his head. Dade took him by the arm, pulled him upright.

  “Let’s be getting inside,” he said and, hanging the slight figure over his shoulder, carried him into the house and deposited him in a worn, leather rocking chair standing in the center of the room.

  “The little gal … the boy … they all right?”

  At the oldster’s mumbled question Lockett stepped back, nodded. “Boy’s hurt some. Girl’s fine.”

  He eyed the man critically. Renzo, she had called him. He was a small, wiry cowhand with a sharp, veined face, stringy gray mustache and beard, a cap of snow-white hair. He would be well up in his sixties, but despite his years, he seemed to be suffering from no more than the hard jolt given him by the night rider’s horse. Given a few more minutes he should be all right. Lockett started to ask about the raiders, decided it was not the time, and, turning about, glanced around the house. The girl had not bothered to pull the oilcloth shades that hung above the windows, had instead closed the wooden shutters. Her better judgment pleased Dade, and, moving up to the nearest, he opened it a narrow crack and looked out.

  The yard, its hard-packed surface shining in the moonlight, was empty. It could mean the hooded raiders had pulled off, did not plan to make a second attack. If such had been their intention, it was only logical to think they would have struck before then, not held off and permitted those inside the house to get prepared. He hoped that was the case; he could then be on his way.

  Closing the wooden panel, Dade locked it and crossed the room to the bedroom where the girl was working over the wounded man. A pan of steaming water, a bottle of some sort of antiseptic, and a stack of clean, white cloths were on a table nearby. She glanced around as he filled the doorway.

  “Renzo … is he …?”

  “Doing fine. Horse just knocked him flat. Probably could use a drink of whiskey more’n anything else. How’s your husband?”

  She turned back to the chore of completing the bandage on the boy’s leg. “He’s my brother Clint,” she said. “My name’s Roxanne. We’re the Rakers.” She hesitated, added: “I’m … we’re grateful to you, Mister … Mister …?”

  “Name’s Dade Lockett. You don’t owe me no thanks. Kind of odds you were up against called for help from anybody around. Just happened I was close by.”

  The girl nodded, continued with the bandage. Lockett considered her with interest. She had a quiet, refined way of speaking that assured him she had come from some other part of the country—the East undoubtedly—and her name—Roxanne—that was a new one on him. He’d never heard it before. Roxanne Raker—it sure had a fine ring to it.

  She looked up at him suddenly as if remembering something. “The whiskey,” she said, pointing toward the shelving in the far corner of the kitchen. “It’s up there.”

  Lockett retraced his steps into the adjoining room and made his way to the specified corner behind the stove. Searching about in the mason jars of preserved fruit and vegetables, he finally located a pint bottle of liquor. It had never been opened, he noticed, and, pulling the cork, he returned to where Renzo was slumped in the leather rocker. The old man nodded as Dade halted before him.

  “Ain’t sure where you come from, friend, but I’m mighty thankful you showed up when you did.”

  “Forget it,” Lockett said, and handed the bottle to him. “Take a swig at this. It’ll fix you up good.”

  Renzo accepted the whiskey, downed a healthy swallow, and smiled. “Just the kind of medicine I was needing. Clint … you said he was some hurt.”

  “Caught himself a slug in the leg. Be laid up for a spell. Nothing worse than that.”

  Renzo heaved a sigh. “Real pleased to hear that. With him gone I just don’t know what the little gal would do. What about them jaspers? They still hanging around?”

  “Maybe. No sign of them. Could be lying back in the brush, getting set to try again. You some kin to the Rakers?”

  “Nope, just sort of a hired hand doing whatever’s needful.”

  “You all the help they got?”

  “Yep, just me.”

  Lockett shook his head. A boy barely a man, a young girl clearly out of the world she ordinarily could be found in, and a stove-up old cowhand trying to run a ranch, small wonder they were having little if any success. He turned as the girl came into the room, carrying the pan of water
and other medical items, stopped in front of Renzo, and peered anxiously at him.

  “Don’t fret none,” the old man said quickly. “Ain’t nothing wrong with me. I been hurt worse shaving myself.”

  Roxanne smiled, breaking the taut lines of her face. She was dark-haired, had light blue eyes, and a dusky skin. The dress she was wearing, a plain, cotton print, set off a good, well-proportioned figure.

  “Your brother doing all right?” Lockett asked

  “He’s in pain but there’s nothing serious. The wound was a clean one. The bullet went straight through.” The girl hesitated, faced Lockett. “I’m grateful to you for what you’ve done. I’m telling you so again because I really am. If you hadn’t come along … if we hadn’t got Clint inside, there’s no telling what those men would have done.”

  “Ain’t hard to figure,” Renzo said grimly. “And it ain’t over yet.”

  Lockett wheeled, crossed to the window. Again opening the shutter slightly, he studied the open ground fronting the ranch house and the line of brush fringing its far edge. There was no one to be seen. He turned, met the girl’s anxious gaze. “Think maybe they’ve given it up,” he said.

  Her shoulders went down with relief, and, nodding, she moved on into the kitchen area. Renzo scratched at his jaw thoughtfully.

  “Expect they’re gone for the night, but it sure ain’t over. Thing is they wasn’t looking for somebody like our friend here.”

  “Folks call me Dade … Dade Lockett.”

  The old cowpuncher extended his hand. “I’m Renzo Clark. Mighty pleased to know you.”

  “Same here.”

  “Like I said it sort’ve caught them flat-footed, and they ain’t sure what to do.”

  Roxanne, emptying the pan of water out the back door, hung it on a nail in the wall, moved up to the stove. “They’ll know … and they’ll be back. Grosinger isn’t one to quit until he has what he wants.” The girl’s voice was low, laced with despair.

  Renzo nodded solemnly. “That’s for certain, but I’m betting that bunch of his’ll be a mite careful next time they come a faunching in here. I didn’t see nothing, me getting knocked slantwise by that horse, but I could sure hear the shooting. You nick any of them, Dade?”

  “A couple,” Lockett replied. “Not bad but they won’t be comfortable for a spell. You mind telling me what the ruckus is all about? And who’s Grosinger?”

  Roxanne, in the act of setting plates, knives, forks, and other such items on the table, shrugged. “It’s a long story. Began when my father was killed … murdered,” she said. “We can talk about it after supper, that is, if you’ll stay and eat with us?”

  Lockett smiled. “Sure wouldn’t want to put you out none.”

  “You won’t be. There’s plenty and it’s all ready except for dishing it up.”

  “Got me a whiff of it while I was out in the brush.”

  “Then you’ll stay?” the girl pressed eagerly.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Lockett said. “And I can tell right now it’s going to be a real treat.”

  IV

  Lockett and Renzo Clark took chairs at the table. Roxanne, after a quick glance at her brother to assure herself he required no attention, began to place the food before them—fried meat, warm light bread, several vegetables, fresh butter and honey, hot apple pie, and coffee. For Dade, a solitary man most often on the trail eating his own cooking, it was a meal he would not soon forget. Finished, he leaned back, sighed comfortably. “Sure can’t thank you enough,” he said to the girl. “For somebody like me that kind of supper comes along maybe once in a lifetime.”

  Roxanne smiled, her wide-set eyes glowing from the compliment. Renzo gulped the last bit of his pie, sloshed it down with a swallow of coffee, and brushed at his mouth with the back of a hand. “Them’s the kind of vittles we get around here regular,” he said, reaching for his pipe and tobacco. Looking up through his shaggy brows at the girl, he added: “One of the real good things that comes from working for the Rakers.”

  Lockett made no comment, dug into his pocket for the makings, and began to roll himself a cigarette. Across the table Roxanne took up the granite coffee pot and refilled the cups.

  “You was asking about our trouble,” Clark said, striking a match to his charred bowled old briar.

  “Was just wondering,” Dade said, “but I reckon I already know what it’s all about. Always the same, seems … big man trying to take over the little one.”

  “That’s just what’s happening,” the girl said. “There are several ranchers who would like to have our place. It’s at the head of the valley.”

  “Was we of the notion,” Renzo pointed out, “we could close off the range, keep everybody from going through.”

  “Which is something we never intend to do,” Roxanne continued. “My father assured John Grosinger, and all the others in the valley, that it would never happen. That there will always be a trail to the north across our land. Clint and I have repeated that promise but they don’t want to accept our word.”

  “Reckon you’re meaning he … not they. It’s John Grosinger we’re talking about,” Renzo growled. “Ain’t nobody else giving us trouble.”

  Lockett nodded. “Wants the land himself so’s he’ll not only be sure the trail will never be closed but so’s he can close it himself if ever he wants. Who is this John Grosinger? Has he got the biggest spread around here?”

  “Yes, the Diamond G, he calls it,” the girl replied. “When my father came here about three years ago, this ranch was owned by a man named Fedderman. He wasn’t doing much with it and my father bought him out. He started fixing up the place and brought in some cattle …”

  “That’s when Grosinger and a few of the others began flirting their ears and taking notice,” Renzo broke in. “Long as nobody was doing anything special with the place, they didn’t pay it no mind. But soon as Charley Raker started making a real ranch out of it, then that there was a different pair of boots we was talking about.”

  “Grosinger the only big outfit in the valley?”

  “Well, no, there’s Ed Cushman,” the girl said. “He’s to the south of us. He’s almost big as Grosinger, but the two men aren’t anything alike. Mister Cushman’s an old family friend.”

  “Offered to buy you out same as Grosinger,” Clark said.

  “I know, but only if we finally decide to sell. He says it’s up to us, strictly, but that if we do, he’s asking for first chance to make a deal.”

  “And if he gets the place,” Renzo said, “it’ll make his C-Bar-C a bigger layout than Grosinger’s.”

  “I can understand why John Grosinger’s anxious to take over,” Lockett said. “Those night riders, are they working for him?”

  “Who else?” Roxanne answered with a small twitch of her shoulders. “Mister Cushman would never stoop to that … and he was always a friend of my father’s.”

  Dade studied the tip of his dead cigarette thoughtfully. The story was not a new one—and certainly none of his business. He had his own problem—that of tracking down Pete Dillard and settling with him. But conversation was welcome after so many empty days and nights on the move, the company pleasant, and the coffee good. “Has this been going on ever since your pa took over the ranch?”

  “Just about. Actually, Renzo can tell you more about that. He went to work for Father when he bought out Fedderman. Clint and I didn’t come until about a year later. You see, after Mother died, my father left us with an aunt … back in Indiana. The town was called Frenchman’s Crossing. He came West and the plan was to send for us when he had a place for us to settle down and make a home. It took ten years but he finally did.”

  “Weren’t much trouble to start with,” Clark said. “Reckon they figured Charley was just like Fedderman and wouldn’t last no longer’n a june bug in a chicken pen. But Charley fooled them. Rebuilt this shack into a house
like it is now, got a garden to growing, brung in some livestock, and put some cows to grazing right fast. By the end of that first year he was going good. Then …”

  The old man paused, shrugged. Lockett nodded and said: “That’s when things started happening.”

  “Just about. First off, howsomever, he sent for Roxie and Clint. Was right after they got here that trouble busted loose. First there was some fires. Part of the range was burned off. Then one night a shed caught on fire.”

  “Masked men, like those calling on you this evening?”

  “We never knew,” the girl said. “Nobody ever saw who did it. It just happened. We lost some cattle, too, about fifty head. That’s when my father was murdered. He set out to follow the steers. We didn’t know he was going to do it, and when he failed to come home that night and the next morning, we got worried and began to search for him.”

  “Found him in a dry wash,” Renzo completed as she looked down. “Danged bushwhackers’d got him from behind. Had a bullet in his back.”

  “You call in the law?”

  Roxanne nodded. “Reported it to the marshal at Mule Springs. He tried to run down whoever did it but failed.”

  “What about the steers? They ever show up?”

  “They wouldn’t,” Renzo said bluntly. “Whoever it was took them, used hisself a running iron and changed the brand. Like as not they’re wearing a Diamond G now.”

  “Probably. Just can’t see a man big as this Grosinger bothering to rustle fifty cows, however.”

  “Could be he just let the bunch that bushwhacked Charley have them as sort of extra reward.”

  “Makes more sense. It’s been you three running the place ever since, I take it?”