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    Lawless Trail
    Lawless Trail
    Lawless Trail
    Ebook279 pages4 hours

    Lawless Trail

    By Ralph Cotton

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    A Family Affair

    The Traybo brothers have a reputation for being gentleman outlaws—the kind who will make polite chatter as they take your life savings. But Ranger Samuel Burrack has no sympathy for those who show poor manners when it comes to obeying the law. He’s traveled as far as the Mexican Badlands to pick up the Traybo brothers’ ex-cohort Fatch Hardaway to lead him to his prey.

    Burrack isn’t alone on his pursuit. Ranger Dallas Garand and his gang let the Traybo brothers slip through their fingers during a robbery once before, and they don’t plan on letting history repeat. Instead of joining forces with Burrack to create a unified front, though, Garand is going his own way. It’s Garand against Burrack on the trail of these criminal brothers—and may the best ranger win....

    More Than 2.5 Million Ralph Cotton Books in Print

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPenguin Publishing Group
    Release dateOct 1, 2013
    ISBN9781101626825

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      Book preview

      Lawless Trail - Ralph Cotton

      PART 1

      22703.jpg

      Chapter 1

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      Twisted Hills, the Mexican Badlands

      The wide dirt street of Paso Alto lay beneath a veil of dry wavering heat as Arizona Ranger Samuel Burrack rode the black-speckled barb at a walk past the Gatos Malos Cantina. From under the brim of his sweat-stained sombrero, he eyed three men seated along a blanket-cushioned swing on the cantina’s front porch. Each man held a rifle; each man wore a bandolier of ammunition hanging from his shoulder across his chest.

      The three men returned the Ranger’s stare, keeping the porch swing moving slowly back and forth with the slightest effort of their scuffed boots.

      That’s right, gringo. You just keep moving on along, the man in the middle growled under his breath, more to his two compañeros than to the Ranger.

      On the man’s right, a broad-shouldered Mexican gunman known only as Pesado gave a single grunt of a laugh, finding irony in Ross McCloud calling the stranger a gringo. McCloud was from Missouri, after all—less than three months in Paso Alto, where he’d taken refuge from Missouri law.

      "You are one loco bastardo, Ross," Pesado said with a sharp grin, his dark eyes following the Ranger for a few yards before turning away.

      Ross McCloud stared straight ahead and spoke to the gunman on his left, an on-the-run murderer called Little Richard Fitts.

      "Did he just call me a crazy bastard, Little Richard?" McCloud asked quietly, yet in a menacing voice.

      Yes, I believe he did, Little Richard replied, eyeing a busty young British woman stepping out of the cantina and lighting herself a thin black cigar.

      Ross McCloud nodded.

      Good, he said, also watching the woman draw deep on the cigar and let out a stream of smoke. For a minute there I thought he was insulting me.

      Ten feet away the British woman untied the strings holding her blouse shut across her breasts.

      I hope you fellows don’t mind, she said with only the trace of a British accent. It’s hotter than Hades at high noon. She fanned the blouse, then retied it loosely, and left it hanging partly agape, her pale freckled breasts half-exposed in the white-hot sunlight.

      "We don’t mind, do we, Little Richard?" McCloud said without taking his eyes off the woman.

      Not too awful much, Little Richard replied, staring at her, his lips hanging slightly agape. It is high noon, he added.

      And this is hell, McCloud said to her. Leastwise it was, until it got so hot the devil moved out. Without taking his eyes from the woman, he stood up and held his rifle out sidelong to the Mexican beside him. Pesado, hold this for me. I’m going to go count this young lady’s freckles.

      Oh, are you, now, luv? the woman said. She turned to face them, a hand cupped at the center of her half-naked breasts. "And what might I be counting whilst you amuse yourself?" She turned her cupped hand enough to rub her fingers and thumb together in the universal sign of greed, then clasped it back over herself as if overcome by modesty.

      I can’t stand this, said Fitts, leaning his rifle against the end of the swing, stepping forward. I’ll give you something to count, he said to the woman.

      Easy, luv, your fangs are showing, the woman said to Fitts.

      Wait a minute, Little Richard, said McCloud. Who invited you?

      When she turned them puppies loose, that’s all the inviting I needed, said Fitts. He started forward.

      McCloud hurried alongside him, shoving him away.

      We’ve been pards awhile, Little Richard, he warned. But I swear to God—

      Behind them, Pesado stood laughing under his breath. But something in the corner of his eye caused him to turn suddenly toward the empty street. When he did, he found himself staring at the Ranger, who stood less than two feet from him, his big Colt cocked and aimed at the Mexican’s broad belly.

      Buenos días, Pesado, the Ranger said quietly.

      In reflex the Mexican started to swing his Spencer rifle around, having to drop McCloud’s Winchester to do so. But before he could complete his move, the Ranger poked him with the gun barrel, just hard enough to make himself understood.

      If I wanted to kill you, you’d already be dead, the Ranger said menacingly. Drop it.

      McCloud and Fitts both turned at hearing the Winchester hit the ground. Now they saw Pesado’s Spencer rifle fall from his hands. They saw the Ranger standing with his Colt jammed into the Mexican gunman’s belly.

      They started to make a play for the revolvers holstered on their hips.

      Pesado saw the look in the Ranger’s eyes.

      Don’t! he shouted at the other two gunmen. This one will kill me. I know he will!

      Who are you, mister? McCloud asked, his and Fitts’ hands rising chest high in a show of peace. What the hell is your game here?

      I’m here to see Fatch Hardaway, Sam said flatly.

      Huh-uh. We can’t let you do that, said McCloud, in spite of the Ranger’s catching the three by surprise and getting the drop on them. He and Fitts took a cautious step sidelong toward the cantina door as if to block it. The British woman stood back, cigar in hand, watching intently.

      Sure you can, said Sam. He knows I’m coming.

      As he spoke he pulled the cocked Colt’s barrel back an inch from the Mexican’s belly and pulled the trigger. All three men braced themselves, their eyes widened—especially Pesado’s. But the Ranger caught the gun hammer with his thumb at a split second and eased it down. Pesado let out a deep sigh and cursed the Ranger under his breath.

      "You dirty, rotten, gringo . . ." He let his words trail.

      The Ranger, his Colt hanging in his hand, slipped the Mexican’s revolver from its holster, pitched it down beside the rifles and stepped away from Pesado toward the door.

      I already said we can’t let you do that, McCloud said in a stronger tone, his and Fitts’ gun hands dropping down, poised beside their holstered revolvers.

      The Ranger’s thumb cocked the big Colt again. He stopped and raised the barrel calmly, smoothly, before either man made their move.

      Damn it! McCloud raged silently. Again this stranger had the drop on them. Damn it to hell!

      The British woman shook her lowered head. She let out a stream of smoke, dropped the thin cigar and crushed it out under her foot.

      By my stars . . . , she said. "Aren’t the three of you just the berries . . . "

      Her words fell away as a tall man in a black sweat-stained suit coat stepped into the doorway and looked back and forth. He held a sleek long-barreled Remington Army revolver hanging in his right hand. He raised his free hand and removed a long, thick cigar from his mouth.

      Well, well, Ranger Samuel Burrack, he said. Here you are, just as I’d hoped.

      I said I’d be here, Hardaway, the Ranger replied.

      So you did, said Hardaway. And you’ve strolled through my bodyguards without so much as a shot fired, I see. He gave each of his three gunmen a scorching look. I can’t tell you how pleased that makes me, as much as I’m paying these gun monkeys.

      Ranger? McCloud, Fitts and Pesado looked at each other as if dumbstruck. McCloud stepped forward, embarrassed, and gestured a hand toward Sam.

      Boss, it’s lucky for him you showed up just now, he said. We come very near killing this fool. Not sure you was expecting him, that is.

      Yes, lucky him, said Hardaway with a searing stare at Ross McCloud. "All of you bodyguards best pick your guns up before someone carries them off."

      The British woman gave a short, playful chuckle; Hardaway shot her a hard glance too. Seeing her loosely exposed breasts, he took a deep, patient breath.

      Edy, put those away before somebody walks into a post and knocks their damn teeth out, he said seriously.

      I certainly wouldn’t want that, now, would I? she said, closing her blouse front a little better, but not all the way.

      There you are, Ranger, said Hardaway. See why I want to go back to Texas without getting hanged? Life gets awfully trying around this bunch.

      I bet, Sam said. You need to remember that the next time before you shoot a man and burn his saloon with him inside it.

      I realize that I may have acted a little rash and hastily, both in killing him and in burning his saloon down, said Hardaway. But what has become of forgiveness these days?

      Sam just stared at him.

      At any rate . . . Hardaway looked the Ranger up and down, then motioned him inside out of the sun. Welcome to the Bad Cats Cantina, he said.

      The Ranger stepped inside and looked around the cantina’s dingy, dark interior.

      This is your place? he asked Hardaway.

      Let’s just say I’ve acquired a substantial interest in it, he said, guiding the Ranger across the dirt floor toward tables standing beneath rings of circling flies. I do hope you’ve got some good news for me.

      •   •   •

      On the front porch, the Englishwoman, Edith Edy the Hand Casings, tightened her blouse shut and gave the gunmen a disgusted look as they stooped and picked up their rifles, looking them over good. Seeing her adjust her bosom and straighten the blouse as if preparing to leave, Ross McCloud stepped closer to her.

      Don’t rush off, little darling, he said with a wide grin. I haven’t lost interest in counting those freckles.

      Nor have I, Fitts cut in, stepping closer himself.

      But Edy the Hand was having none of it. She sidestepped the two, moved past them and started toward an alleyway around the side of the cantina.

      I’ve got an errand to run, luvs. You can go count the nits on each other’s arses, as far as I’m concerned, she said, a hand patting her breasts. "These puppies are trained to sniff out live game, and live game only."

      Wait! I’m live game! I’ve got money here, McCloud called out after her. He shoved a hand down deep in his pocket and jingled some coins.

      Sorry, but I prefer money that folds instead of rattles. Anyway, money’s not everything, is it, now, luv? she said over her shoulder as she hurried away down the narrow alleyway.

      The hell did she mean by that? Fitts said, looking confounded.

      Behind the two, Pesado stood watching, a mocking grin on his broad face.

      She means that being seen with you two will only make her look bad, he said in a superior tone. I have to admit, I do not disagree, he added with a dark grin.

      Oh yeah? said Little Richard, levering a round up into his rifle chamber. "How bad will it make you look if I clipped off an ear or two for you—"

      Both of you shut up! McCloud demanded. He turned to the big Mexican. How come the Ranger knows your name?

      Because in some places I am known as a bad hombre, Pesado said, his face taking on a more serious expression, staring at Fitts’ rifle pointed toward him. Fitts lowered the rifle barrel a little and took a deep breath.

      So what? Fitts grumbled. If I had a dollar for every ragged-assed lawman who knows my name—

      "Sí, but this is not just any lawman, said Pesado. This is Sam Burrack, the Ranger some call Big Iron."

      Big Iron, huh? said McCloud. He and Little Richard looked at each other. Meaning he’s one hell of a gunman, I suppose? he asked.

      "A hell of a gunman, sí. Pesado shrugged. He is a hell of a gunman, for sure. It was he who killed the gringo Junior Lake and his whole gang."

      Say, I remember hearing about that, said Little Richard. One of the Lake Gang killed the old outrider Sazes, so this fellow killed every damn one of them.

      "Sí, that’s the story, said Pesado. But that is not all this man they call Big Iron has done. He raised a long finger for emphasis. It was he who tracked the Red Sleeve Wilson Orez into the Blood Mountains and killed him in a knife fight."

      Whoa, Wilson Orez, the half-breed? said McCloud.

      Sí, said Pesado.

      Yeah, McCloud said, all of a sudden impressed. I did hear about that. He gazed off at the Blood Mountain line standing in the distance above the upreaching Twisted Hills. Orez was some kind of high mucky-muck among the old Apache Red Sleeves . . . a real demon when it come to wielding a blade.

      "Sí, and this is the man who killed him in a knife fight, Pesado said proudly, as if he himself had taken part in the knife fight. His voice lowered a little. They say this Ranger cut him open like a steer—cut off his head, his hands, his ears, his feet."

      The two gunmen stared in rapt silence. Pesado’s whisper lowered even more.

      They say he sliced open his belly from here to here, he continued. His hand traveled from his chest to his crotch and he squeezed himself.

      Jesus . . . , Fitts murmured.

      "He sliced open Orez’s escroto," said Pescado.

      His nut sack . . . McCloud winced. My God . . .

      "Sí, and now he carries Orez’s cajones in a leather pouch inside his saddlebags," Pesado said.

      No, said Fitts. He gripped his crotch. The three stared up the street, where the Ranger’s black-speckled barb stood hitched to an iron rail, the Ranger’s saddlebags hanging behind its saddle.

      "Sí, and there they are, right before our eyes, Pesado whispered in awe. I have heard that he carries Orez’s very own knife, and at night in the campfire light, he takes Orez’s cajones out and rolls them slowly back and forth on the knife’s blade—"

      All right, that’s enough, said McCloud, cutting the Mexican short. He looked away from the saddlebags and shook his head. You had me for a minute.

      "Sí, I had you!" Pesado clapped his hands together and chuckled out loud. These gringo imbeciles.

      Fitts tore himself away from staring at the saddlebags and swallowed a dry knot in his throat.

      Yeah, me too . . . for a minute, that is, he said, his hand still hanging deftly near his crotch.

      Chapter 2

      22703.jpg

      At a corner table inside the dingy Gatos Malos or Bad Cats Cantina, Fatch Hardaway looked down at three Mexicans and gave a jerk of his head toward another table. The three hurriedly picked up their drinks and cards and moved away. Fatch gestured the Ranger toward an empty chair and walked around to where a stack of gold coins and gold dust pouches rested on the table.

      Taking a seat, Hardaway poured tequila from a jug into a wooden cup and motioned toward the bar for the bartender to bring a fresh cup for the Ranger.

      No, thanks, said Sam.

      It beats the water around here, Hardaway said. He turned up a drink of tequila and slammed the cup down. Stifling a cough, he said, The town well draws its water from a spring running under the graveyard. He gave a sour expression. Makes me think I’m drinking somebody’s rotted feet. His expression soured even more. All the more reason why I miss ol’ San Antoine.

      I understand, the Ranger said.

      All right, then, said Hardaway. "I can’t stand waiting another minute. What’s my situation? Am I still marked for a Texas hanging party, or do I remain forever stuck here in Infierno mexicano eterno?"

      "Hell eternal is putting it a little strong, Hardaway," the Ranger said, looking around appraisingly.

      Spend a week here, Ranger, said Hardaway. You’ll see what I mean.

      Obliged, but no, thanks, the Ranger replied. Anyway, you’re free to do as you please, Hardaway. It turns out the man you killed was wanted for murdering three people in Ohio a couple years back.

      No fooling? said Hardaway, surprised. So that gets me off the hook?

      In this case, yes, Sam said. The folks he killed come from a respectable family in Cleveland.

      "Respectable meaning rich?" Hardaway grinned.

      That would be my guess, said Sam, continuing. There was some scandal to it. The family would just as soon let everything settle down as quick as possible. So Texas is saying one dead murderer is no great concern.

      Hardaway kept his grin. "How is that for a stroke of luck? A murderer, you say. He paused, considering everything for a moment, then said, Let me ask you, was there any reward money on ol’ Lonnie Lyngrid?"

      Sam just looked at him for a moment.

      No harm in me asking, is there, said Hardaway, him being a craven murderer and all?

      No harm, said Sam. As it turns out there is a reward. There’s a five-thousand-dollar reward posted by members of the deceased’s family through the city of Cincinnati. As he spoke he took out a folded reward notice and spread it on the table.

      "Ha! I can’t believe it," said Hardaway, reading the reward notice and amount to himself. He shook his head, grinning, his lips moving quietly across the printed word.

      Don’t forget you would have to travel all the way to Cincinnati to collect the five thousand dollars. Sam studied the expression on Hardaway’s face.

      So? said Hardaway. I’ve gone a lot farther for a lot less money. Besides, as fast as traveling is these modern days, I could go get my reward money in Cleveland and ride out on the next train to Texas—whole trip wouldn’t take over two or three weeks, four at the most.

      You’ve got a point there. The Ranger nodded. You might want to walk a little quiet if you go on back to Texas afterward, he warned him. You could still face charges for murder and arson if you made somebody mad. The man you killed was a wanted murderer, but that doesn’t make you a saint in anybody’s eyes.

      Yeah, yeah, I got it, Hardaway said, dismissing the Ranger’s warning. I am damn obliged to you for bringing me this news, he added.

      Don’t forget, said the Ranger, seeing Hardaway appeared ready to bolt and start packing his belongings, you agreed to tell me where to find your pards Ty and Wes Traybo.

      "You mean my ex-partners, said Hardaway, settling back down into his chair. He gave a wince. I nearly forgot that this was a trade we agreed to."

      I didn’t, Sam said flatly. Don’t start tightening up on me now, Hardaway, he cautioned. I did what I said I’d do for you. Now pay it up.

      Dang, you just don’t know how bad it feels, double-crossing your pards, even if they’re a couple of crazy sons a’ bitches like the Traybos.

      We made a deal, Hardaway, the Ranger reminded him, rising slightly in his chair.

      All right, I know, I know, Hardaway said, fanning Sam back down. I agreed to tell you, and I’m trying to. I’m nothing if not a man of my word—most times anyway . . . well, sometimes that is, provided everything—

      Stop stalling around and tell me where they lie low, Sam said, cutting him off. The law has looked everywhere.

      Hardaway struggled with it for a moment, then let out a long sigh and slumped in his chair.

      I can’t do it, Ranger, he said. I hate to crawfish on a deal, but I’ve got to. He paused, then said, I almost wish you hadn’t told me I’m free and clear and have some reward money waiting. He held back a crooked little smile. I fear it might have taken away any incentive for telling you about the Traybos.

      The Ranger just stared at him.

      I expect you’ll make some threats now, act like you’re going to kill me, or shoot me in the foot . . . stuff like that, Hardaway said. But I’m prepared to call your bluff. See, I don’t think you’ll shoot a man over something like this.

      The Ranger raised his gun hand away from his holstered Colt and placed it on the tabletop.

      It looks like you’ve got me there, Hardaway, Sam said. I warned myself you might do something like this—

      Awww. Don’t feel too bad, Ranger, Hardaway cut in. You’re young, still learning. Let this be a good lesson—

      That’s why I went ahead and had your reward money for Lonnie Lyngrid deposited in an Arizona Territory bank before I came looking for you, Sam continued. He raised a folded paper from his hip pocket and pitched it over in front of Hardaway beside the reward poster. I figured it would save you a trip to Cincinnati, and keep me from putting a bullet through your foot.

      You did what? said Hardaway, unfolding the paper, seeing the heading First Bank of Cottonwood Arizona across the top.

      "That’s a promissory note

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