• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

Some woman.

HIS BODY CAME alive as the shot sounded behind him and his hand instinctively went to the booted carbine. He turned in the saddle drawing the Springfield, the sorrel sidestepping nervously, kicking the dry leaves, throwing its head. There were other sounds in the leaves and suddenly a man’s voice: “Throw up your hands!” And almost with the words Mitchell was dragged from the saddle. Men were all around him in the darkness, two holding his arms, and as he tried to rise a fist came from nowhere, stinging hard against his face.

A rifle barrel jabbed into his back and he was taken through the trees, a man holding each arm. There were more men at the clearing and the nearest ones stepped aside as Mitchell was brought in. One man was building the fire. Another was climbing the wagon wheel, now looking inside. The rest stood in a semicircle around Hyatt and the woman.

The man holding Mitchell’s left arm shouted, “Dyke, we got the other one!”

Mitchell saw one of the men turn and nod his head, then beckon them to come closer. He stood relaxed, a tall man wearing a stiff- brimmed hat low and straight over his eyes, and a tawny tip-twisted mustache that in the firelight blended with the weathered cut of his features. His coat was open, a dark coat… and then Mitchell saw it. The deputy star against the dark cloth and everything was suddenly perfectly clear.

Hyatt was saying, “What’re you doing! We’re camped here and you barge in, shooting—”

A man said, “You scrambled for that gun quick enough.”

“How’d I know who you were?”

“You know now.” The man laughed. Mitchell looked from this man to the others. There were perhaps a dozen in the group, but only Dyke and two or three more wore deputy stars.

“Listen”—Hyatt’s voice calmed—“I think you could’ve announced yourselves, that’s all. You’re looking for somebody and you want to ask some questions, that it?”

Dyke shook his head. “I don’t have any questions.”

Hyatt’s eyes shifted along the line of men. “We’re on our way down to Tucson. I’m going in business with a man down there.”

Dyke said nothing. His eyes were on Hyatt, studying him.

“In the freight business,” Hyatt said. “This man’s already got contracts.”

“Are you through?” Dyke said then.

Hyatt frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I’ll tell a story now,” Dyke said. “It starts the day before yesterday when the Hatch & Hodges was held up an hour out of Mojave. One of the passengers, Mr. J. A. Hicks, was shot and killed when he raised an objection. Now, this Mr. Hicks was owner of the Mogollon Cattle Company—Slash M—of which I’m foreman. Mr. Hicks, besides being boss, was my best friend… which doesn’t mean much to the story aside from it’s the reason I was deputized to take out a posse.”

Hyatt said, “I’m sorry to hear that, but—”

“I’m not finished,” Dyke stated. “You see, these holdup men separated after the robbery. We spent a whole day scratching for sign and finally we got on one we were pretty sure of. Last night we caught up with a man named Cliff something. Now, at first he said he didn’t know anything about it.”

DYKE’S EYES HADN’T left Hyatt’s. “I hit this man twice. The second one broke his jaw and after that he wrote down what we wanted to know. How he was to meet his friends tonight, and where. A woman and two men posing as travelers. A man named James Rady; another by the name of Hyatt Earl.” “Well?” Hyatt said. His voice was controlled, and it told nothing of what he might be thinking.

Dyke brought a match out of his vest pocket and wedged it into the corner of his mouth, shaking his head as he did. “That’s all there is to the story.”

Hyatt hesitated. “Now what?”

“Now, Mr. Earl,” Dyke said mildly, his eyes lifting then, “we’re going to hang you right on that cottonwood over there.”

“What’re you talking about, hanging! You don’t even know—” Hyatt broke off. He looked at Dyke and at his men and for a long moment he was silent, gaining control of himself. He said then, calmly, almost defiantly, “You got to take us to trial. That’s what the law says.”

The matchstick