The three riders came on at a walk, rifles laid easy across their saddles. The one in front had a bandage around his left ear. It was a poor bandage, folded from a red neckerchief and tied so loosely that the ear stuck out beneath it like a pale, offended flap.
The Man With No Phlegm stood between them and the pump. His right hand throbbed inside its rag wrapping. Behind him, Mrs. Noll had Kit by the shoulders and was steering her toward the station door. The townspeople had found whatever they could lift: a shotgun, a wood axe, one iron skillet. They looked ready to defend Tallow Creek, provided somebody else went first.
Bob watched the riders come. “Three guns,” he said. “I count one of you.”
“Four,” said the Man.
Bob turned his head. “You’re counting your injured hand as a weapon?”
The Man had no useful answer. He lifted his good hand instead.
The lead rider stopped beyond the pump. His gaze went over the townspeople, the Man, and the water cart lying on its side. “We’ve come for Hobb.”
“He’s sick,” Mrs. Noll called from the station steps.
“So’s half my camp,” the rider said. “We still need our money back.”
The Man glanced toward the awning where Hobb had been held. The cowboy was no longer there. The rope hung slack from the post. He had either been moved inside or had crawled away on his own. Both possibilities seemed likely to hurt somebody.
“How much money?” the Man asked.
“Payroll,” said the rider. “Hobb took it when he ran.”
The man beside him spat into the road. “And stove-sided Rusk’s head on the way out.”
The leader touched the bandage at his ear. “He hit me too.”
Bob leaned toward the Man. “A busy fellow.”
The Man kept his eyes on the rifles. “If he took your wages, you can settle that without shooting up the town.”
“Hand him over and we’ll ride.”
Mrs. Noll brought the shotgun to her shoulder. “You’ll ride now. Hobb stays here until I know what he’ll do near my daughter.”
That was a clear answer, delivered in the voice of a woman who had already spent her morning lifting a cart off a child. The Man felt the townspeople settle behind it. He could still turn Hobb out. The riders might take him and leave the town standing. They might also drag him back to camp, sick and bound, and call the matter settled.
The Man didn’t like either possibility. He liked the guns least.
Next
With Hobb sheltered and a captured rider in town, the Man must keep Hobb from turning his stated revenge against Rusk into another fight Tallow Creek cannot afford.
A shadow moved in the station doorway. Hobb stood there, one hand braced against the frame. His face had gone the color of old porridge. He carried a small canvas bag.
The riders’ hands tightened on their reins.
“That’s the bag,” the man with the skillet-shaped head said.
Hobb lifted it. “Three men’s wages in there.”
“Three men are dead,” the lead rider said. “They can collect in heaven.”
“Then you can explain it to them.” Hobb’s voice scraped out thin and dry. “Rusk kept the money. I took what was owed.”
The Man looked at the bandaged ear. “And that?”
Hobb’s fingers closed around the bag. “Rusk left me chained in a ditch when I got sick. I got loose. He came after me. I hit him with a pan.”
“You stole his payroll and hit him with cookware,” Bob said. “A criminal with domestic skills.”
Hobb’s gaze stayed on the rider. “I’ll kill Rusk when I see him again.”
The words had no heat in them. That made them worse. The Man studied Hobb’s slack shoulders and the tremor in the hand holding the bag. Whatever debt Rusk owed, Hobb was in no shape to collect it. The Man wanted to tell him so. He knew how it sounded, coming from a man who had charged into trouble over a toppled cart and injured himself with a pump handle.
The lead rider swung down. “Give me Hobb and the money. I’ll leave the town to its own filth.”
The Man stepped in front of the station door. “You can take the money.”
Hobb’s grip tightened. “No.”
“Keep your voice,” the Man said. “I’m trying to save your life.”
“You’re trying to hand them what I took from men who can’t ask for it.”
That stopped him. Behind the rider, the other two had begun to spread apart, making room to aim around their leader. Mrs. Noll’s shotgun followed them. Kit watched from the dark inside the station, very still.
The Man had wanted to save the town. He had wanted to save Hobb. A person could want two things until the moment they had to stand somewhere.
He stayed in front of the door.
The lead rider drew his pistol. “Last offer.”
The Man spotted a coil of awning rope beside the station wall. He had used it to hold Hobb earlier. A stout rope could pull a rider from a saddle. That was the whole of his plan, which seemed sufficient until he remembered Bob was attached to the other end.
“Bob,” he said. “Take the rope.”
“Absolutely.” Bob’s eyes brightened. “I’ve been waiting for a chance to drag a man through town.”
The Man tied the rope around Bob’s saddle horn with his good hand. His injured fingers protested. He made the knot anyhow, then passed the other end around the pump post. The riders watched him work. So did the townspeople.
“Is this a trap?” Mrs. Noll called.
“It is now,” the Man said.
Bob took one step, and the rope slid loose from the post. It whipped around the Man’s boots.
The first rider laughed.
The Man tugged the rope free. “Bob, go!”
Bob went sideways.
The line snapped taut across the road at knee height. The lead rider’s horse shied, throwing him hard against the pump. His pistol clattered beneath the water trough. The second rider had to haul his horse back to avoid trampling him. The third raised his rifle toward the station.
Mrs. Noll fired first. The blast took a bite out of the road beside the rifleman’s horse. The animal bolted. Its rider grabbed for the reins, lost his seat, and landed in the shallow ditch with a wet slap.
The town answered with shouts and the clank of the skillet against the pump. Nobody had to explain the skillet’s part. The man holding it appeared to believe noise was a kind of ammunition.
The Man lunged for the fallen rider’s rifle. Pain shot through his right hand when he caught the barrel. He nearly let go. The rider grabbed his coat, and they wrestled beside the trough, boots sliding through mud and spilled water.
Hobb came off the steps. He had the canvas bag tucked under one arm and a short length of broken plank in his other hand. The Man saw him look at the lead rider, who was pushing himself upright against the pump.
“Hobb,” the Man said.
Hobb stopped. For a moment the plank stayed raised. Then he lowered it and turned toward the rider in the ditch, who was trying to crawl clear of the running horse.
That was enough. The lead rider got his pistol from under the trough and backed toward his horse. He did not look at his companions. The bandage had come loose; blood showed along the edge of his ear.
“Rusk will come for you,” he said to Hobb.
Hobb held the bag against his ribs. “Tell him I’ll be here.”
The rider mounted and wheeled away. His two companions followed, one with mud on his coat and the other leading a horse that had lost its rider. They left one man behind in the ditch, caught by the townspeople before he could reach his boots.
When the dust settled, Mrs. Noll lowered the shotgun. She looked at Hobb, then at the bag. “You stay in the stable. You don’t go near Kit. We’ll decide what happens to that money when you can stand without holding up the wall.”
Hobb nodded once. He didn’t thank her. He was watching the road where Rusk had gone.
The Man flexed his right hand and stopped when the fingers refused to close. Mrs. Noll took the captured rider’s belt and tied his wrists. Bob nosed the loose rope, looking pleased with his work.
“I believe,” Bob said, “that makes me the town’s first line of defense.”
“You went sideways.”
“History will be kind.”
The Man looked at Hobb, the captive, and the empty road. He had kept Hobb from the riders. He had also left Hobb with a target, a bag of disputed wages, and a good reason to ignore every order given to him.