Free Last Lawman (9781101611456) by Peter Brandvold Page B

hitchrack, and now he narrowed an eye up at the two Pinkertons. Before he could grumble a proper reply to the younger man’s greasy hoorawing, Mason said, “Strang, do me a favor. Do us all a favor, and shut your fuckin’ trapdoor before I drive the butt of my hogleg through it. You men are here only as my personal favor to the Pinkerton agency. No one said you could track or even shoot, and I’m still not convinced you can ride. So don’t push me.”
    The sheriff, all business as usual, looked at Spurr. “You ready for a hard pull?”
    Spurr swung into the leather and turned Cochise away from the hitchrack. “What do you think I came out here for—pie and coffee?” He was surprised—no, stunned—at Mason’s having stuck up for him. Not that he needed the sheriff’s help with these two Pinkerton tinhorns. He could have pistol-whipped the pair till their brains dribbled out their ears. It just wasn’t like Mason to come to the aid of a man whom Mason saw as old and washed up.
    At least, that’s how Spurr had figured the younger sheriff regarded him after their testy, often outright argumentative partnership during their long ride to the Mexican border a year ago. Mason, who Spurr saw as an unproven lawman often blinded by his distrust of federals and too pigheaded to take direction from a far more experienced badge toter, had fared little better in Spurr’s eyes.
    The Pinkertons were flushed, their eyes indignant.
    Spurr looked all the men over. “Your horses need a rest, water?”
    “We gave ’em a blow and water at the Mud Creek Stage Station,” said Ed Gentry. “But me—I could use a bottle.” He was eyeing the saloon yonder with interest.
    “No time for that,” Mason said.
    Gentry, a skinny oldster about ten years Mason’s senior and Spurr’s junior, a good lawman from what Spurr remembered, spat a thick wad of chew onto a fresh horse apple. “Maybe no time to sit and play cards, but I’ll be damned if I’m ridin’ dry. Spurr, your holds got slosh?”
    “I ain’t no juniper, Ed.” Spurr reached back to pat one of his saddlebag pouches, then offered the man a brotherly smile.
    “You boys go on ahead,” Gentry said. “I’ll be along shortly.”
    As the territorial marshal trotted his claybank off toward the saloon, Mason cursed, then tipped his cream Stetsondown low over his high forehead as he swung his buckskin out into the street and touched its flanks with his spurs. Spurr pulled Cochise up beside the sheriff’s mount. Stockton rode to Mason’s other side, rolling chew behind his lower lip. The two Pinkertons, looking ornery after Mason’s verbal assault, fell in behind.
    As they rode past the saloon before which old Ed Gentry was just now dismounting, Spurr scrutinized the young sheriff riding on his left. Mason looked even more grim and serious than Spurr remembered. Spurr figured the man had a right. The worst that could happen to any lawman had happened to Mason. His jail and his town had been sacked. His prisoner, a notorious killer, had been freed by his equally notorious gang. They’d killed several innocent bystanders and kidnapped another.
    Those were all the details that Chief Marshal Brackett had shared with Spurr. They were all he’d needed to know on the front end of the assignment. He knew the Vultures’ reputation, had even tracked them, in vain, twice before. He figured Mason would eventually fill him in on the rest of their most recent depradations.
    “Go easy, Dusty,” Spurr said, staring straight ahead over his horse’s ears as they trotted on out of the fledgling town.
    Mason glowered at him. “What’d you say?”
    “I said go easy. Bring them beans in your pot back to a simmer. You goin’ off on a full boil like this ain’t the way to track killers of Clell Stanhope’s ilk.”
    “You know about Stanhope?”
    “Hell, Stanhope’s been runnin’ off his leash for nigh on ten years now. I once took down two members of his gang, but never did get