Chapter Seventeen

"I've got to get them out of there!" Fist pounding hard into the ground, Mort gave up trying to sleep and slid away from his bedroll. "I've just got to!"

Lon's eyes turned to slits, but there would be no rebuke on his tongue for Mort shaking the dark blanket off of him. He had been awake most of the night himself. "Coffee hot?"

"I left it in the coals. Help yourself, though. The way I'm shaking, likely I'd pour it all over you."

Standing, Lon patted some of the wrinkles out of his shirt before he went to their campfire. "Bad dream?"

"Yeah, but it was playing out in my mind while awake. Something's wrong, Lon. I can't figure it but I also can't shake it. I thought I'd feel better after we found out in Billings the other day that Slim and Jess weren't part of the escape. But I don't. I feel worse."

"I know. I've been watching it eat at you."

"Aren't the teeth in your hide just as severe?"

"Yeah."

"Then how come you don't show it?"

"Because I'm married to Fran. In a way, I wear her teeth every day."

Mort's hand ran across his hair. "I'm sorry, Lon."

"You don't have to apologize, Mort. I know what you're going through."

"Yeah, because I know what those boys are going through. That newspaper article said no one would be excluded from the warden's punishment. And one man's already been whipped to death!"

He had read the same article, multiple times, and every word sat in his stomach like a sour batch of beer had been poured into it. Coffee ignored, Lon's eyes went to the coals. But maybe he should have looked to the sky instead. With each pulsating glow of the fire, Lon could see a sunburned back, reddened even further by the man's blood running rivers out of the gashes from the warden's whip. He didn't want to put Slim and Jess' heads on top, but no matter how hard he tried, that was who he saw attached to a pair of whipping posts.

The same anger that was fueling Mort suddenly rippling in his veins, Lon dumped the entire coffee pot over the fire, immediately turning the red into steam. If only the images could have disappeared on the same wisps. He may never lose that wretched sight.

"Let's get going."

Lifting his saddle from the ground proved that Mort wasn't going to argue. If there wasn't a need to rest their horses, then neither sheriff would have stopped searching for Brooks in the span that they had been roaming Montana's hidden and wide open trails. He had given up counting the days out since they hit the border, but if he tried again, he would need more fingers than he had.

Their ride through the dark a slow one, the trained eyes wandered back and forth over the thin path they followed. When they made camp, it had already been established that whoever was last through here making prints was a long time back, but that was what they were searching for. Unless Brooks was still on the run, he wouldn't have made horse markings in these parts for weeks.

Mort's fear was that he kept right on riding. Lon was more optimistic. Listening to Claudia Welch's version of the argument between Brooks and her stepson over and over again in his head, Lon was convinced that it would have ended right there or soon after with a bullet if Saul thought Brooks was running out on the gang. Montana was a big country. Canada even bigger. No, there had to be a place that the group of outlaws knew about, another hideout, and that was where Brooks would be to lay low until all the dust settled in Wyoming.

But as big a territory as Montana was, he could be standing a mile within Brooks and never know it.

The sun close enough to the horizon to make color start to appear around them, Lon nodded to a fork in the path, made by a deer, but perhaps used by another. "Want to take the left?"

"I guess," Mort answered, but then his nose was given a rub. "You smell smoke?"

"Campfire or the kind where ma is putting breakfast on?"

"Campfire. I don't smell any flapjacks turning over."

"Who knew getting his food supply cut off for as long as you did would make his nose have the gift of perfect smell?"

"It's not perfect, otherwise I'd be able to tell you exactly where it's coming from. I know it's more than in my imagination though. And…" Mort took another lengthy sniff. "Maybe I can give us a better point. It's not coming from the left."

Lon turned in the saddle. "I don't see anything. Maybe there's a hollow somewhere close by."

"The right kind of place where outlaws go to camping."

"Could be any number of them out here. We've already bagged three different faces on wanted posters since we've been on the prowl. It's a good thing we're lawmen or we'd be gaining quite the notorious reputation of being bounty hunters. Don't tell Fran I didn't collect any pay on their hides."

"What's the matter, doesn't she approve of a sheriff's salary?"

"You know how much one of her dresses cost?"

"I'm glad to say I don't. Well, do you want to circle first or crawl straight in?"

"Let's circle first and see what we have. Meet you back here in ten minutes?"

"Sounds good."

Ten minutes would be quick to pass and only one man would be in the designated meeting place. When Mort began to angle around a cluster of trees leaning precariously as if a slide had started and never finished, he saw where the ground started to dip. He was on the high edge of the descent, and straight below him was a tendril of smoke.

Someone was definitely down there, and considering the terrain, it was someone that didn't want to be seen.

As the land was turning rougher, Mort knew hooves would start to clop and he made a swift dismount. Tying his horse to a tree without the leans, he lay on top of one that did make a formidable bend. Through the branches he got the view he was looking for.

The man lazing against a boulder was wearing a thick, silver band around his hat, draped enough over his eyes to show that he was still asleep. And if that wasn't enough description to make Mort's blood start to boil, the specially marked Sharps was seated along his side.

It was Brooks.

Hand jumping for his gun, suddenly another palm crashed over his iron to keep it still. "Lon!"

He whispered through his nod. "I figured you found something when you didn't make it back in fifteen minutes."

"I did. It's Brooks!"

Letting go of Mort's gun, Lon watched as his companion slowly removed the iron from his holster. "Easy."

"You don't have to tell me. I want him alive."

"Then how do we do it? Last time we went in shooting, our man died."

Mort's memory was just as strong on this fact, but it still brought a sigh out of his lungs as if the realization had just hit. "Then we'll have to go in without a gun drawn."

"How?"

"I'm not sure yet."

Lon looked up. "Well, we better come up with something quick. The more the birds chirp, he'll be awake soon and he just might look up here to where a couple of big birds are sitting."

"Yeah. Let's move back a bit where we can talk more freely."

Their retreat took them a full hundred yards, but there wasn't enough trust in the distance to allow Lon's voice to raise much beyond their earlier whisper. "I don't think I've ever seen your cheeks that red, Mort."

"I'm mad, but I've also got something brewing in my mind. And it just might be scary enough to make my temperature rise more than anger."

"I'm afraid to ask, but go ahead."

"You know something, Lon?"

He shook his head. "You'll have to tell me."

"You could pass for an outlaw. You've got the height, the right grit of your teeth. The only problem is that you're wearing a ring on your finger."

"I can put it in my pocket."

"Do it."

As if he could hear Fran's high-pitched squalor, Lon winced as he pulled the wedding band off. "What exactly do you have in mind?"

"One of us needs to get in there, but without a badge on. For Brooks to let someone in, he's got to be vile, notorious, and deadly. Obviously Brooks knows what I look like, but hopefully he's never seen your face before."

"I doubt it. But how am I going to convince him that I'm his kind?"

"Grub yourself up a bit, in appearance and speech."

"How do I do that?"

"You rub dirt all over like you spend all your days riding and bucking the law."

"No. Change my speech?"

"Mimic Jess. That's what I'd do if it was me going in there."

"That could work. But I'm not sure a dadgum out of my teeth will be convincing."

"Try it."

"Dadgum."

"You're right, don't say that, but stick with the way his Texan tongue chops most words up. Oh, and furrow your brow some more. You need to look half mad and half cantankerous."

"You mean catarankus, don't you?"

"Now you're talking."

Kneeling into the dirt, Lon patted a handful over his face and let some dust trickle over his hair. Spitting so there would be a dribble down his chin, he gave his mouth a backhanded swipe and then spread whatever was left in his palm over his backside. Hat back on, he made the tip be slightly askew and then waited for Mort's approval.

Nodding, Mort reached for the kerchief in Lon's pocket and let it dangle. "That's more like it."

"If Fran could see me now, she'd faint."

"Women like her never faint. She'd probably scream, though."

"That I can easily hear. Should I do anything else?"

"Yeah. Take your vest off so the prong marks don't give you away," Mort said, and then as Lon handed him the leather and star, he gave him a long stare. No, he wasn't scrutinizing his companion's appearance anymore, he was afraid this was going to be his last look. "You ready?"

"Just tell me it'll work and I'll be ready."

Mort's dark eyes connected with Lon's. "I can't. Does that mean you won't go in there?"

Lon shook his head. "I'm willing to do whatever it takes."

"I know it sounds simpler to say than do, but all it's going to take is to allow Brooks' guard to go down enough so he's not within reach of his rifle. Do that, and we've got him."

"I won't ask what happens if he pulls the trigger before he invites me in."

"I wouldn't answer you if you did ask."

"Well, then. Let's go."

They stopped outside of the hollow, Lon still atop his horse and Mort on the ground. From this position it was difficult to see inside, but with his seat in the saddle, Lon craned his head until he could view Brooks' position. He was up now, fixing coffee from what Lon could tell. But at least he wasn't hanging onto the Sharps.

While his voice couldn't rise above a whispered breath, the hammering of his heart threatened to be the very sound to undo their plans. "Mort."

"I know. I'll be right here in this crevice with a gun."

"But you won't use it."

"I will if I have to. But make it so I don't have to."

Nodding, Lon stuck a match between his lips for one last touch to look the nefarious role and rode into the hollow. Mort did his part and prayed, but since he didn't figure the Almighty to be holding a gun, Mort put his iron in a direct point to the chest of his enemy. He prayed again that he wouldn't have to pull the trigger just yet. But it was hard to know what God's answer would be, especially now. Hearing Lon's entry, Brooks took up the Sharps and gave it a crack.

"Hands up!"

Lon stared at the rifle and gave its position at his head nothing but a snort. "That doesn't sound like the kinda welcome I wanna hear. You're not wearing a star, though. So I reckon you ain't all that bad, except of course, that you're pointing that fancy iron at me."

"You wary of badges?"

"I think it's more like they're wary of me. I've put a few of 'em in their graves."

"So've I."

"Then it looks like I'm in the right company. Mind if I get down?"

"Only if you're not being trailed."

Lon shook his head. "Nobody that's still alive, anyway. You still think you need that Sharps sharpened on me?"

"Maybe not," Brooks answered, lowering the iron, but not letting it go. "But it can always come back up, anytime."

"Noted," Lon said, and at his dismount, he gave a spit toward the nearby stream. "Name's Tobacco Jack."

"Never heard of you."

"Not surprising. I've just come into the territory. Been in the Dakotas awhile. Thought I'd try some different ground. And you're…?"

"Buck Brooks."

Lon widened his eyes. "Now you I've heard of."

"How so?"

"You recently broke out of Yuma. That doesn't happen every day."

"Nope."

"I read in the papers that some men recently tried. A lot of them failed. That makes you some sort of a legend."

"I had the right kind of friend doing the springing."

"I reckon it pays to have friends."

"Do you?"

"I work alone," Lon answered, afraid by the way Brooks' eyes narrowed that he could see Lon's friend hiding in the rocks behind him. But then the outlaw's shrug took Lon's fear down a notch.

"I'm getting there. Had the law pare one man down for me. Someone shot another. If one more goes, I won't complain much."

Lon didn't figure he would. The less in the gang, the more of the main haul he would get to carry on. Figuring he needed to give some kind of response to that statement without showing his true feelings on the subject, Lon smiled and then squatted alongside the campfire to fill a cup with coffee.

The sip taken, Lon was surprised that it actually tasted good. "Seems that I recall you being in another gang a few years ago. Since you're still hailing and the others ain't, you obviously know how to work around the law. Care to give any tips?"

"Sure. Don't talk to lawmen."

Lon laughed, but as is sounded too nervous coming from a real lawman, he quickly gulped half his cup down. "Besides the obvious, I mean."

"You can't care who dies."

"I don't get easily attached. Even to my horse over there."

"Then you're doing things right, Mister."

"It's Tobacco Jack."

"Sure. But you don't get to call me Buck."

Lon's hands went wide. "I figure after today, I probably won't see you again, so what's the point of adding anything into the conversation other than Brooks?"

"So you'll be moving on, huh?"

"That's the intent."

"Where to?"

"I'll probably pass through Wyoming and head to Utah."

"I thought maybe you'd be sticking to Wyoming awhile."

"Why's that?"

He shrugged. "A lotta men've been combing the area the last couple months."

"I don't follow you."

"I thought you read the newspapers."

"I do, when I get the chance. Men like me try to avoid towns."

"I see," Brooks answered, the notes in his throat growing sinister. "So you don't know about a large sum of money supposedly lying around Wyoming?"

"First I've heard about it."

"You're lying."

Lon hoped the rim of his hat would absorb the droplets of sweat on his forehead, for he began to rain. "I'm not."

"Then how come you're here with me? Out of all the hidey-holes in Montana, and you choose this one? I haven't seen a soul in the entire time I've been here, haven't wanted to for that matter. And now you show up? You don't smell right."

"So I take a bath more than regular outlaws. What's it to you?"

"That doesn't answer my question. Why are you here?"

"I guess I can't answer how I winded up in this exact spot on Montana's map, but maybe you should be thankful that the first man you see out here is a roughneck like you are and not a lawman."

A smile broke through the hard lines on Brooks' face. "That's true. But like I said before, you can't care who dies. And Mister, I don't care at all about you."

The rifle swinging back up, Lon made a desperate attempt to grab the Sharps from Brooks' clasp but the outlaw held tight. Their heights easily matched, Lon's boot reached for the man's knee and once he made connection, reared back for another. That put both men on the ground.

Teeth in a tight grip, Lon could only allow one raspy escape through his lips. "Mort!"

He was coming the moment the Sharps was in position to fire. Now as he ran toward the two men rolling on the ground, Mort tried to find some of Brooks' flesh to shoot a hole through. As the arms were attached to the rifle and flush with Lon's chest, that would leave Mort a leg to aim at. Unfortunately both were in a constant flail with Lon's pair.

He couldn't shoot, but he had to get there just as fast as any bullet could fly.

If he lived through this, Lon was certainly not going to relay this scene to Fran, for it wasn't her face he was seeing as death loomed dangerously close. He saw Slim and Jess, stuck behind bars. His wife not even in his head, Lon heard the strong voice that was Mort's earlier cry.

"I've got to get them out of there!"

"No wonder you're a weak fighter. You talk to yourself like an old woman."

Lon wasn't weak, but Brooks was definitely trying to cause the kind of response that would allow him to find Lon's weak point, especially now that he was on the ground. Unwilling to give him a glimpse, Lon pushed up on Brooks' chest and flipped the man over. The grunt through his teeth showed that there was enough pain to demolish the thought that his opponent couldn't win, but as Brooks wasn't ready to give up, he pushed back even harder, making Lon cry out. Pulling one hand free, he roared his fist upward to give a jaw-breaking crash. It would have fallen if there wasn't another man ready to fight him just as hard.

Although this man was holding onto his weapon without another hand clamoring for it, and this weapon was cocked and ready to fire.

"Hold it, Brooks!" Mort's command might not have stilled the outlaw, but as the voice was coming out of grave Brooks thought he dug, ice prickles broke out all over his back.

Breath held, he turned, and then exploded. "Cory!"

"Surprised, huh? Step away from Lon!"

"Lon?" He obeyed, but his dark eyes kept a firm hold of Lon as Brooks stared at the man regaining his feet, with full control of the Sharps. "Since you're definitely no Tobacco Jack, what are you?"

"Sheriff Lon Matthews, Denver, Colorado."

"Nice trick," Brooks hissed as he was jerked by Mort's hand to step farther back. "Real nice."

Lon shrugged. "I thought I did pretty good, for awhile anyway."

"This isn't getting us anywhere," Mort said, putting his gun to Brooks' temple. "Maybe this will. Where's the money? Talk or so help me I'll…"

"You won't," Brooks said without even a hint of a stutter.

"You didn't let me finish. I won't kill you. But I'll make sure you're immediately sent back to Yuma. You see, Brooks, I don't have to arrest you for the stagecoach robbery. I don't have to arrest you for any lives that were lost in it. All I have to do is arrest you for jailbreak, and you're on your way south. I bet Marshal McGary can have the tumbleweed wagon here in two days. You want to wait and find out if that kind of pace exists or do you want to talk?"

The swallow a difficult one, Brooks winced as if it actually hurt. "I got out once, I can do it again."

"I don't think so. Not when your only help is in the same prison himself. That's right, Brooks. When I was in Billings the other day, I sent a wire to Cheyenne to find out what's been happening down there. The return said that Spinner's heading to Yuma. Maybe I can work it out so you two can be cellmates."

"You're lying."

"Not one bit."

Brooks' cheeks already red, fear made them turn that much brighter. "You ain't like any sheriff I've ever dealt with before."

"That's because I have two men counting on me to be unlike any sheriff you've ever dealt with before. So are you going to talk or are you going straight to Yuma?"

His head bobbed roughly. "I'll talk."

.:.

"If I think hard enough about this, I'm going to be like a woman and faint."

"Just say you're like Fran who doesn't faint."

"Yeah, but she'd scream," Mort said, holding onto the shovel that had just uncovered a fortune. "Like I want to right about now, so long and loud this entire mountain crumbles down."

"All this time and it's been in the Grayline mine. Or maybe they only planted it here after they killed Curly Gray."

"It doesn't matter what day they buried it. I was living with it for three weeks! Absolutely unbelievable!"

Lon gave the haversacks a pat. "They're heavy. But I wonder if we should count it out to make sure it's all there."

"Let the Overland company do that, or better yet, either Chesterfield or McLaughlin. Boy, wouldn't I love to shove every dollar bill down either one of their throats. But what I'd love the most is to send the wire to Yuma telling them to let Slim and Jess go."

"Laramie is only a night's ride away, which means that telegram is the same distance."

"Don't tell me. My horse is already pounding the ground to get there. Those boys are coming home!"