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CHAPTER 7 - THE GAMBLE

Frederick Macon had found luck to be on his side through all of his twenty years. He'd always been a skilled gambler, so playing poker with the intention of losing to Johnny Lancer had been sort of hard for him to swallow. He'd enjoyed play-acting, though, in order to trick Johnny into believing they were friends. He and his pal Flanagan had recently been fired from the Texas outfit they'd been working for, and when the offer had come along to waylay Lancer they had jumped at it. A little rough stuff was all in a day's work for the pair of them and the promise of a hefty payout just sweetened the deal.

Aware they needed to gain the upper hand over Johnny Lancer, and cautious of his expertise with a sidearm, they had encouraged the ex-gunfighter to drink with them. Macon recalled his Pa saying a man like Lancer was a curly wolf, someone to sidestep unless you wanted a heap of trouble. They'd even strong-armed one of the new dance hall gals at the Rialto Saloon into getting Lancer to toss back a few tequilas with her, and he'd never suspected a thing.

After a night of cards and carousing, Macon and Flanagan had easily waylaid their target on his way to his horse. Lancer hadn't been drunk, but his senses had been dulled, that was for sure. It was almost regretful, he thought, 'cause he'd taken to this fellow. Johnny had been full of good humor and hadn't been shy about sharing his good fortune and had bought more than one round of drinks from his winnings.

And the horse they'd stolen from him. . . my, what a fine animal the palomino was, though troublesome, full of piss and vinegar. The horse had tried to buck him off at first, but a good whipping, plenty of spur and a firm hand had brought the animal begrudgingly under control.

But Macon had been thrown off the palomino and now he lay on a rocky slope half way down the ravine. He was unable to move anything but his arms and even that small movement hurt like hell. The back of his head was jammed between a couple of rocks but he couldn't feel much else.

A man's shadow loomed over him, blocking out the hot sun. The face that hovered over him had such a grim expression that Macon's gut clenched in fear. He raised his hands in his own defense, expecting to be struck. He knew he didn't have a chance. His luck had run out.

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"You'd better speak up, man," Scott advised tersely. "Your friend is in no shape to help you out."

"Get me on my feet, then," Macon demanded, even as his right hand sneaked towards his gun belt. Dismayed to discover his .45 was no longer in its holster, he reached around blindly for it, but a boot heel jammed down on his hand. He screamed.

Scott leaned over and pulled the half-hidden gun out from under Macon's body, eliciting another cry of pain from the near-helpless man. Scott hesitated. Even with a coating of dust on the man's battered face, and blood on his mashed lips, it was obvious he was young. There was considerable fear behind the defiance in his eyes.

"What's your name and where are you from?" asked Scott.

"Macon. I ain't from nowhere. What's it to you?" Macon spat out a mouthful of blood and a tooth, instantly regretting doing so when agony coursed through his chest.

Macon looked pitiful lying on the ground all broken up, but Scott hardened himself. "You're going to die out here, alone except for the buzzards, unless you tell me where you got that palomino, Mr. Macon. And don't tell me some tall tale because it won't wash. That's my brother's horse and I know for a fact that Johnny would have never loaned him to anyone." He removed the pressure of his boot from the man's hand and stood straight. "Never to someone like you, that's for sure."

"I found him running loose-"

Grabbing a fistful of the man's shirtfront, Scott shook him. "I am known as a patient man, but right now my own friends wouldn't recognize me. You and your friend bushwacked my brother back in town, and I want to know why," he growled. "Was it a robbery? Johnny must have trusted you or you would never have gotten away with it." He shook the man again.

Macon head jerked back and struck the rocky ground. He yelped, then twisted to locate his buddy, but his eyes widened when he realized how far off the trail he'd fallen. "Flanagan. . ." he called out weakly.

"Why did you attack my brother?" Scott asked roughly.

His face hardening in response, Macon spat at the man holding onto his shirt. "I don't know what you're talking about!"

Scott released him and called up to Isidro, "Shoot that man in the leg, Isidro."

Isidro started to protest, "But Senor! El hombre-"

"For once, just do as I say," Scott ordered. Another man appeared beside the Lancer vaquero on the trail above. It was Mr. Rinaldo, a small figure compared to the bulk of Isidro. He perched on the edge of the precipice and looked down at Scott straddling his victim.

"Isidro, you hear me? I want you to put a bullet in Mr. Flanagan every time Mr. Macon here doesn't answer me straight. Commence with the right kneecap." Isidro started to shout down a response but Rinaldo put a hand on his arm and said something to the vaquero that Scott couldn't hear. The two men moved back out of sight and Scott turned his attention back to Macon. "Why did you attack my brother?"

Macon, his mouth agape, stared at Scott. "We didn't do nothing! All we did was play some cards in town, Mister-."

Scott raised his arm and signaled Isidro. A couple of seconds later, a shot rang out, its echo resounding up the ravine. A scream of agony came from the trail above them. The injured man at Scott's feet gave a strangled cry of disbelief. "Next question," Scott said harshly. "Did you attack Johnny of your own volition or did someone set it up for you?"

"I swear I don't know what you're talking about-"

Scott lifted one hand and Macon cried out, "No! No, don't shoot Flanagan again! I'll tell you," he sobbed. "I'll tell you, just please… please don't…just give me a chance. . . "

"Did you give my brother a chance? Or did you and that piece of filth lying up there take him down from behind? I know Johnny and he's not the kind to get suckered. If he hadn't trusted you, you'd be dead already."

"Don't you hurt Flanagan no more," Macon begged. He coughed, his face scrunching up with pain. One hand gripped his chest, another warded off Scott. "We didn't mean him any real harm," he started. "We played poker with him. Had a few drinks, some laughs-."

His jaw clenching, Scott signaled Isidro with a sharp gesture of his arm. There was another report from a gun, its echo mingling with a horrible scream. Macon's eyes closed, a moan issuing from his lips at the sound. Relentlessly, Scott pursued. " Tell me what happened to Johnny Lancer back in Morro Coyo. Who hired you?"

Macon ran his tongue across his parched lips. "I don't know. I didn't take the job. It was Flanagan. All I know is we was paid to get the guy drunk and take him out back. Told to soften him up, is all."

Scott remained expressionless as he forced himself to refrain from striking Macon. "Someone did a sight more than beat up Johnny. He was stabbed - in the back. You aim to tell me that's your way of repaying my brother for playing poker with you? Who told you to attack him? And no more lies."

Swallowing hard, Macon relented. "Flan said it was an older fellow with money. I didn't even have a knife. I didn't stab him, Mister, I didn't! We only held his arms. . . "

"What did this older fellow look like?"

"I told you," Macon whined, "I didn't see him-"

"You were holding my brother for him," Scott said angrily. He wasn't sure how much longer he could restrain himself. All he wanted to do was hurt this man - badly, and he couldn't see past it.

Macon had a coughing fit, one hand running across his mouth. It flopped back weakly to his side. "He was wearing a big old duster, all stained, like a drover's. He looked rich, even with that rig on and a black Stetson. I never got his name. His eyes were cold. You gotta believe me!"

"You're both the worst kind of men, Macon. You took payment for harming a man you didn't even know. You left him to die and stole his horse, then did worse to the Gundersons. . . " Scott choked on his words. He had to turn away for a minute.

Isidro called down, "You want me to shoot this one more, Senor?"

"Not right now," called Scott. "But I haven't finished yet."

"Just get me to a horse," pleaded Macon. "You'll never see me again, I promise. I'll go. . ."

"I've always been a live and let live kind of man, but what you two have done surmounts on the unforgivable. It goes against the grain for me to lift a finger to give you any ease, but I have to do it or I know I'll find my actions come back to haunt me." Scott took a deep breath. "I might just take the risk and put an end to your miserable life, and take whatever consequences that follow." He leaned over again and grabbed Macon's shirtfront, raising him off his rocky bed by a few inches. "It's not up to me, though, is it? The sheriff isn't far behind and he'll be the one to drag you in for justice. Don't you think maybe we should keep you alive long enough so you can be hanged, nice and legal?"

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Isidro and Rinaldo watched Scott scramble up the slope. When the blond man had almost reached the trail, they put out helping hands and pulled him up the last rough section. Looking down the ravine, Isidro asked, "We going to get him up? I have enough rope, perhaps, if tied with your riata."

Without even looking down to where Macon lay unmoving within the grasp of two boulders, Scott ordered, "We ride back to Lancer."

"But these two men-" started Isidro. He indicated Flanagan, whose body was now adorned with two bullets holes.

Cutting off his father's segundo, Scott said harshly, "They're both dead. There's no point wasting time with them. My only concern now is my brother. Let's ride for home."

Rinaldo came forward and handed Scott Barranca's reins. "Mr. Lancer, if you want to ride your brother's horse, I will use your horse and the other one they rode to take the bodies back to town." He pointed down the trail in the direction they had come. "Here comes more of our posse. They will help me take care of this buzzard meat." He spat in derision at the body lying on the trail.

Scott glanced over his shoulder to see two men riding up the trail, along with the sheriff, then looked back at Rinaldo. Slowly he reached out to shake the man's hand. "I'd appreciate that, Mr. Rinaldo." He mounted Johnny's palomino and once it was clear the horse had accepted him, he lengthened the stirrup leathers.

Isidro eased his horse past the oncoming posse members. Scott followed but pulled back on Barranca's reins after only a few feet. Turning in the saddle, he called back to the helpful Rinaldo, "You know, those screams of yours were pretty convincing."

Rinaldo removed the lariat from his saddle horn and started to unwind it. "The least I could do to help. Too bad this one was already dead." He touched the brim of his hat with two fingers. "You tell Mr. Johnny Lancer to get better real soon, okay?"

In response, Scott gave a crisp salute, with his palm outward and his elbow raised high, then rode for home.

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