The Wild Bunch Read online

  Harrigan turned, sneering.

  “And what time does your crystal ball say is right?”

  “Before noon. Say eleven o’clock. Near dinner time, when he won’t attract attention. He knows these towns. When it’s hot all these people get their outdoor business done early and duck inside while the sun’s high. He’ll blow in here while the street’s empty, make his hit and be gone before anybody knows he’s been here.”

  • Pike Bishop was on his way. He rode at the head of his motley crew behind a long freight train that snaked through San Rafael and hid the troop from the sight of watchful men on the roof.

  He wore the khaki of the American cavalry. On his shoulders gleamed the bars of a lieutenant. The men behind him were also in uniform. They looked like soldiers but rode casually. There was no order in their column, no ramrod up their backs. They sat with the relaxed ease of men who consider their horses to be an extension of themselves.

  Pike alone held his shoulders square, rode erect from a long habit of alertness and responsibility, not because of military training. His posture was also partly a reaction to pain. An old wound was hurting badly this morning, a reminder of an event that he had long tried to forget, of a loss that was still bitter deep inside him.

  But he did not ride with the lift he had known in the old days. The men he controlled, except for Dutch, were not the same caliber as his old comrades. He was tired, dissatisfied with the changes in the world, the changes in himself. He should, he thought sourly, have gone to South America when Cassidy went.

  Now he would go. This would be the last strike. A good one. A big one.

  He needed a big one. He needed a stake that would let him disappear from the border for good and find some quiet retreat and rest. Crazy Lee’s report of the huge payroll coming into San Rafael was a tailored opportunity. His recent forays had kept the bunch in food but nothing had been left over to keep him going when he quit.

  He turned his head and looked at his followers, knowing a relief that he would soon be shut of them. Directly behind him Dutch Engstrom filled the sergeant’s uniform with his big, good-humored body. Dutch he could depend on, although Dutch had not ridden with Thornton and Sykes in the good days.

  Thornton was in Yuma now and Sykes was old—too old to ride. Pike had left Sykes at the ranch to collect fresh horses for the dash south after this raid.

  The Gorch brothers rode stirrup to stirrup, dressed as corporals, behind Engstrom. They were tough, hard, but to Pike’s mind unreliable. Their best quality was that they stood shoulder to shoulder, backed each other, shared everything between them from food and drink to whores. But they killed too readily and their fellowship did not extend outside themselves to the bunch as a whole. If he had had a choice Pike would not have included the Gorches any more than he would have included the six others he had sent ahead as scouts and who should now be awaiting their arrival at the plaza.

  At the rear was the new Mexican boy, a youngster still in his early twenties. He seemed steady, cool under stress. Angel was the only name he used. He had ridden up to the hideaway one evening and stayed. He said little but what he did say told how disgusted he was with the blood and warfare that was tearing his native land to shreds. Angel, Pike had decided, was a natural rebel—as Pike had been at his age, as Deke Thornton had been and Sykes, and the old members of the earlier bunch.

  How much he wished for some of those at his side today. Not that he doubted his and Dutch’s ability to handle anything that might happen in San Rafael. This job should be easy. No company of American troops was nearby and the local law was laughable. Pike knew Simpkins and his deputy by reputation. The marshal old to the point of atrophy. The deputy was a clown.

  The freight was still passing, blocking the road. Pike pulled up at the edge of town to wait for it. A sign on a post read:

  WELCOME TO SAN RAFAEL

  SEVENTH OLDEST TOWN IN SOUTH TEXAS

  FOUNDED 1703, POPULATION: 5

  1914, POPULATION: 2682

  STAY ON AND GROW WITH OUR COMMUNITY

  Dutch’s laughter rumbled over the noise of the freight.

  “You reckon they put that up for our benefit?”

  Pike grunted. Dutch’s jokes were usually heavy. But at least he could read, which neither of the Gorch brothers could.

  Tector Gorch’s whining voice admitted as much, asking, “What’s it say, Dutch?”

  Angel spoke from the rear, his English clean, with little trace of accent.

  “It invites us to join the community and stay. Maybe if you stayed long enough you might learn to read it yourself.”

  Neither of the brothers liked Angel, feeling that as a Mexican he was somehow inferior. His jibe infuriated Tector.

  “I didn’t join this outfit to serve with no smart kid.”

  Angel’s answer was low but the words reached Pike.

  “Nor I with dogs.”

  Dutch chuckled. He was a man who always found discord funny.

  “Hey, Pike, looks like we got a little dissension in our army. Maybe I should transfer out.”

  The exchange irritated Pike.

  “Knock it off,” he growled. “I’ll transfer both of you out, one more word. Keep your minds on your business. If you’ve got any minds.”

  Dutch continued to grin, the Gorches subsided sullenly. Angel retired behind his usual quiet, reflective mask.

  The caboose of the train cleared the road, the long string of cars stopping beside the station.

  Pike called his order, “Shape up and try to troop like soldiers.”

  He led an orderly column into San Rafael just before eleven o’clock.

  They crossed the tracks and, at a deliberate, stately pace, rode up Third Street, passing scattered adobe houses and a huge white tent where a revival meeting was in progress.

  Through the flap doorway, flung open to admit what little air stirred in the simmering street, they saw rows of women all in white, all wearing blue baldrics across their shoulders, all bent intently toward a speaker at the far end. The speaker was barely visible but his voice rolled sonorously out to the riders.

  “Leviticus ten - nine—Do not drink wine nor strong drink, thou, nor thy sons with thee . . . lest ye die: it shall be a statute for ever . . . Look not upon the wine when it is red . . . when it giveth His color in the cup . . . when it moveth itself aright . . . at the last it biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an adder—”

  Tector Gorch was twisting in his saddle, gaping into the tent.

  “What the hell’s he spouting about?”

  Lyle shook his head in wonder.

  “How do I know?”

  Dutch, never missing a chance to bait the Gorches, called back, “That’s from the Good Book.”

  “What good book?”

  The brothers said it together.

  Pike Bishop turned in his saddle, the hurt in his leg keeping him rigid.

  “Stop it, all of you. Shut up and do your job.”

  He faced forward and rode on, continuing to hear the deep tones of the speaker.

  The Reverend Bibbs was warming to his work, probably loving the sound of his own voice. His mellow notes flowed on, booming out of the tent.

  “That is in the Good Book . . . but here in this town liquor is five cents a glass . . . does anyone really think that that is the price of a drink? The price of a drink let him decide who has lost his courage and his pride and who lies in a groveling heap of clay not far removed from a beast today—”

  The last Pike Bishop heard from his rear was a female chorus: “I hereby solemnly promise, God helping me, to abstain from all distilled and malt liquors, including wine, beer and cider—and to employ all proper means to discourage the use of and traffic in the same—”

  And then he was at the square.

  His eyes ran over it with the perception of long experience. He saw only a few people on the street, a few horses, scattered rigs along the hitchrails. The citizens had given their town over to the sun as it neare
d the zenith.

  He found his six forerunners, uncomfortable in their soldiers’ uniforms, three on the far side of the open square, three on the near, lounging in the shade of deep adobe doorways. He watched them for signals of danger. They saw him and gave none. Pike relaxed the small tension that had built in him. He knew all he needed to know.

  He led his men out of the side street, a sluggish tumble of lifted dust trailing the horses’ feet, and turned along the square. The sprinkling of civilians on the shaded walks or in the open stores merely glanced at them. To these they were merely another small detail scouting along the border for signs of trouble with the Mexicans. Pike smiled. The uniforms had been an inspiration.

  They rode slowly in decorous silence, passed the general store and the saloon. The two small uniformed groups on the board sidewalk casually began to walk, keeping abreast of the riders.

  At the end of the street Crazy Lee Stringfellow, the eager neophyte who ran their errands in this town, apparently discovered the horsemen, stopped and straightened, fumbling a salute.

  Crazy Lee was not bright and this was his first time raiding with the gang. He was playing his role to the hilt. Pike swore under his breath that the boy’s improvisation might call attention to them, ignored the salute and wheeled slowly to the rail where Crazy Lee stood. Pike’s eyes swept the plaza for possible danger as he dismounted. They were in front of an empty store building, directly across from the railroad’s administration building.

  His men dismounted around him. The second trio from the square wandered up. Pike nodded indifferently.

  “Nothing in the wind?”

  “Not a sniff. Not a smell.”

  Buck answered for the six.

  Pike turned slowly, as if easing muscles stiff from riding.

  “Tector, Phil, Abe—you stay with the horses. Don’t tie them.” In the old days he wouldn’t have had to warn the bunch. “We may want to leave in a hurry. The rest of you get your saddlebags.” He waited until the order was complied with, lifted a hand. “Company, fall in.”

  An awkward column of twos formed on the boardwalk but tightened rank as a road wagon moved toward them. Pike waited until it passed, then signaled his men to cross the square. A woman coming from a nearby store, blinded by her load of bundles, walked into Dutch. Her arms opened and the bundles scattered at their feet.

  Pike froze. A trifle like this could upset the best plans. He stepped forward quickly, swept off his hat, bowed slightly, playing his part as an army officer.

  “I’m sorry, madam. Your pardon, please. Sergeant, pick up the lady’s packages for her.”

  Dutch caught his cue, bent and gathered up the bundles. The woman smiled brightly at Pike. Pike had charm when he chose to use it.

  “It’s all right, Lieutenant. The sergeant was not at fault. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

  Dutch, holding the bundles, coughed.

  “Do you have a rig, ma’am?”

  She included him in her smile.

  “Why—yes, Sergeant. Over there in front of that railroad building.”

  Dutch stepped down into the square. Pike offered his arm without hesitation. The woman took it and they followed Dutch, the column keeping formation behind them.

  The woman was flirtatious.

  “Are you gentlemen from the fort?”

  Pike did not know what fort she meant. He did not care.

  “Yes, madam.”

  “I know Colonel Schaeffer. May I have your name so I can commend you to him?”

  “Smith,” Pike said promptly. “Adam Smith.”

  He marched her across the plaza in gallant fashion, reached her buggy. Dutch stowed her bundles aboard. She smiled on all of them.

  “It’s such a comfort to have you soldiers around, with all the killing going on below the border—so close. Thank you again.”

  Pike Bishop bowed once more, handed her up to the buggy seat. Dutch untied the horse and passed the lines to her. The troop stood stiffly, watching her make her turn in the dusty road.

  Pike led the column into the railroad building.

  CHAPTER THREE

  On the roof of the building opposite the brown-and-yellow railroad offices Pat Harrigan said through clenched teeth, “Look at the bastard. As cool as if he wasn’t wanted by every sheriff in a hundred miles.”

  Deke Thornton was looking, an anguished cry for times past welling in him, wanting to shout across the years. How many times had he and Pike ridden gaily into just such towns as San Rafael? He would have given a lot to be down in that square, walking into that railroad building at Pike’s side. A lot—but not enough. The stark horror of Yuma hung between them. He ached to yell, to warn Pike. But there was Yuma. And he had given his word. Given it to a creature named Harrigan—but given it.

  Pike moved jauntily, a lady on his arm.

  Deke could kill him from here and not so much as graze her.

  “I told you he’d show up at eleven.”

  He rose from his knees, lifted his rifle. The bounty hunters lined along on the other side of Harrigan raised theirs.

  Harrigan looked toward him, saw the rifle and cursed.

  “Stop it. Not now. You’ll hit the woman. I told you I wanted them inside. Wait until they come out with the loot in their hands and thinking they’re clear. I want Bishop to know he’s been outthought. I want him to know that you, Thornton, are springing the trap on him.”

  The column was moving. The chance was passing. There was a ringing in Thornton’s ears. He held his fire.

  The bounty hunters held theirs, bewildered eyes on Harrigan. They did not understand hatred. They knew no emotions. They hunted men for one reason only—money. They did not care how they earned it but liked to do so with the least risk to themselves.

  T.C. Nash with his soft, slurring Southern voice put their puzzlement into words.

  “I don’t get it, sir. We get paid for every man we kill, right?”

  Harrigan said impatiently, “Right.”

  “Then I’ll take mine now while I’ve got a clean shot.”

  Thornton said savagely, “Do what he says.”

  “But what if they go out the back way?”

  “He’s got men in the alley, stupid. You know that.”

  The railroad office door closed behind Pike Bishop’s troop.

  Pat Harrigan looked restlessly around the square. He caught movement at the white tent. Women were swarming out, milling, jostling into a straggling line behind a man in a black frock coat. Another group was gathering in front of him. Sunlight glinted off shiny instruments. At the head of the whole outfit a band led by a man carrying a trombone marked time.

  The crowd swayed, taking up the rhythm. The tuba bawled. Cymbals flashed light and crashed. Shrill voices rose in song. The stillness of the air shattered. The parade began to move. It wound out of Third Street and into the square.

  Harrigan watched out of bulging eyes.

  “What the hell is that? Damn it, that we didn’t need.”

  • The railroad paymaster’s office occupied the right side of the general room. The windows opened on the square. The paymaster’s section was divided from the room by a high counter that stopped short of the far wall to leave a passage to the desks and the huge safe in the back corner.

  Pike raked the whole area with a glance that showed him the paymaster and two clerks behind their counter, no one else. His men entered quietly. Angel stepped aside to watch through the windows. Crazy Lee stopped beside the open door. The rest stood at ease.

  Pike walked to the counter.

  The paymaster’s back was turned. He was shouting at a clerk.

  “What you meant to do doesn’t interest me. What you did does—”

  Pike waited politely, smiling at the harangue. It penetrated to the paymaster that the clerk was signaling him to look around. He saw the lieutenant’s uniform and his manner changed abruptly. He hurried forward ingratiatingly. Army business was good business.

  “Lieute
nant, what can I do to help you?”

  “Quite a bit, I think,” said Pike and lifted his heavy gun above the counter. “First—tell your boys to get back against the wall.”

  The man did not immediately understand. He looked at the other soldiers one by one, saw guns in all of their hands and quailed, his mouth opening and closing. Dutch stood grinning. Lyle led his trio through the passage to cover the clerks. A squawk from the doorway made Pike spin.

  A woman had come through the doorway. She was well inside the room before she discovered the guns and was now trying to back out. Crazy Lee had been too quick for her. He had her arm and pushed her toward Pike.

  Pike’s face was taut. This was the second mischance that could trigger his crew into mistakes. But his voice was easy, courteous.

  “Welcome, madam. I’ll have to ask you to step around and join the gentlemen against the wall. We won’t keep you long.”

  She was not as afraid as the clerks were. He saw defiance come into her eyes and changed his tactic.

  “Lee, shoot her if she doesn’t move.”

  Crazy Lee Stringfellow’s eyes glistened. He was keyed up. He had stood on the hot street all morning waiting for the fun to begin. The woman looked at his face, read the unbalanced eagerness there and walked quickly through the passage.

  Unconsciously her steps kept time with a sudden blare of marching rhythm outside.

  Pike Bishop forgot her and with panther strides headed toward the window, swearing aloud. Angel looked sidelong at him, raising one eyebrow.

  “It appears that the ladies from the tent are bringing their message to the plaza. Will we wait here until they have finished?”

  A silent chuckle shook Pike. He liked Angel more the more he saw him under pressure. The ghost of a thrill went through him.

  “I don’t think so. Maybe we’ll join them in a minute.”

  The square was filling with militant white figures, some towing unwilling children. Men were tumbling from the saloon, lining the curb, yelling jeers. Pike turned back to business, striding down the counter and through the passage.

  The woman Lee held there shrieked. Lee swung up his gun. Pike was barely in time to bat it down.