Free Lawless Trail by Ralph Cotton Page A

their hands, as Dallas Garand and his posse pulled Artimus Folliard to his feet. Water dripped from Folliard’s face where Crane had emptied a canteen of tepid water on him to bring him around.
    â€œServes him right, the son of a bitch,” Hardaway whispered sidelong to the Ranger. “Sneaking in here like he did.”
    â€œWalk easy around these men,” Sam warned him in a lowered voice, keeping his eyes on the detectives and townsmen who had laid their torches in a burning pile on the ground.
    â€œObliged, Ranger, but you can’t tell me a thing about these buzzards,” said Hardaway. “They’ve had my bones on a spick for a long time.”
    â€œFor good reason?” the Ranger asked under his breath.
    Hardaway stalled a moment, then said, “I’m probably not the best person to ask about that. But the fact is, I paid my time in Mexico, sitting things out awhile. I’m clean—just like you found out.”
    â€œRelax, Hardaway,” Sam said, seeing how tense the detectives were making him. “You’ve got the law standing beside you.”
    As the posse turned, Crane and two of the townsmen led Folliard away toward their horses while the other men followed Dallas Garand to where the Ranger and Hardaway stood.
    â€œWell, well,” Garand said, finally recognizing Hardaway, “if it’s not Fatcharack Hardaway himself.”
    Fatcharack?
The Ranger gave Hardaway a curious look.
    â€œWhat are you doing riding with Fatcharack Hardaway?” Garand asked.
    â€œNobody calls me Fatcharack anymore, Garand,” Hardaway said in a tight, threatening tone. “Not for long anyway.” His hand gripped the rifle tight. “Maybe you wouldn’t realize that, having only seen my name on old railroad posters and such. But it’s
Fatch
. And you’ll want to remember that in the future.”
    â€œI wouldn’t be putting lots of stock in the future if I were you,
Fatch
,” said Garand. He turned dismissingly from Hardaway to the Ranger. “Ranger Burrack,” he said, “let me introduce you to the finest crew of detectives ever brought together.” He gestured from his left to his right at the hard, grim faces of his men.
    â€œThis is Earl Prew, Fain Elliot, L. C. McGuire, Huey Drambite and Rio DeSpain—or
Spanish Rivers
as some have called him.”
    Spanish Rivers
,
the rotten son of a bitch,
Hardaway thought to himself, gazing at DeSpain, recognizing him less by sight than by name and bad reputation.
    Sam nodded at each of the six men in turn, recognizing the names Fain Elliot and Rio DeSpain. He stopped at DeSpain and looked him up and down, seeing the gunman’s fingers open and close restlessly around the butt of a Mason-Richards Navy Colt conversion.
    â€œSpanish Rivers,” Sam said. “Last picture I saw of you, they had you tied to a board out front of the sheriff’s office in Waco.”
    Spanish Rivers gave a sharp little grin that was more like some strange wolf showing a gold-capped fang. A round gold earring dangled from his left ear. The top third of the same ear was missing.
    â€œYeah, they all thought I was dead that day,” he said. “But they found out otherwise. The photographer got close enough, I head-butted him—broke his damn nose like an eggshell. When they cut me loose, I wanted to light flash powder up his—”
    â€œSo you see, Ranger,” Garand said, cutting DeSpain off, “I have all the right men to go after anybody foolish enough to rob our trains or bank holdings.”
    â€œDoes that include your man over there?” Sam asked, nodding toward Folliard, who leaned against a horse, two men steadying him.
    â€œHard to believe, but that idiot
was
one of my best men until he had his jaw creased with a gun barrel.” He shook his head. “Good gunmen are as unpredictable as they are hard to find,” he said.
    â€œYour man Crane there