Marauders' Moon Read Free Page A

arms and pinned them to his side, and the veins in Webb’s temples swelled with effort to quell his writhing. Then sharply, heaving, he lifted Tolleston to the counter, sat him there, and fisted his raised hand.
    â€œYou’re near an old man,” Webb said thickly. “But if you ask for any more, you’ll get it.”
    His face livid with rage, Tolleston struck out again. Webb dodged it and at the same time hooked viciously at Tolleston’s face. The smaller man pinwheeled over the counter, landed with a thud on his side, skidded, and was brought up sharply against the far wall.
    Very slowly, shaking his head, he dragged himself erect.
    Wardecker said, “Don’t go for a gun, Buck. I’m warnin’ you.”
    Tolleston looked dazedly at them both, and suddenly his weathered face broke into a wry smile.
    â€œI reckon I had that comin’,” he murmured. “But it don’t change things a bit.”
    Webb hitched up his pants and his bony face was hard with anger, and with a vast and ungovernable impatience.
    â€œI’ve had about enough of this rawhiding,” he said flatly, sharply. “I let that tinhorn deputy drag me across the desert because I knew I was innocent and I was tired of where I was. I figured it was an easy frame-up to dodge. But I don’t aim to get hoorawed like the runt in the litter. And if you boys here think you can kick me around, somebody’s going to get bit.” He looked at the sheriff. “Either of you,” he added.
    The sheriff’s eyes glinted a little, and possibly with amusement. Three men and the clerk stepped through the door of the bank just then and found Webb glaring belligerently at the other two.
    â€œBetter come over to the office,” Wardecker said mildly. “Both of you.”

CHAPTER THREE
    As they reached the sidewalk, Webb saw the burly man with the black mustaches hand the reins of his horse over to Iron Hat Petty, who led him down the street to the corral. The man went inside the sheriff’s office and in a few moments they joined him.
    The room was small, containing besides a few rickety chairs, an oversize desk with a top crisscrossed by spur scars. The walls were plastered with yellowed and fly-specked reward posters. Wardecker motioned Tolleston and Webb to seats, then addressed the other man.
    â€œWhat happened, Wally?”
    â€œI dunno,” the deputy answered glumly. “My pony threw a shoe, and I had to pull out of it.” He swore feelingly. “Hell, they’ll never catch that outfit before they cross into Wintering. Did you see the horses they was ridin’?”
    Wardecker sighed and said he didn’t. Wally described them—big, rangy, almost two hands higher than the native stock—and while he talked, Webb observed him. The importance of his office sat heavily on him, Webb guessed, for he was sober, almost pompous, his heavy mustaches adding to this impression. He was everything a deputy should be, Webb thought; a man to take orders but never think of them, a man, thorough and slow and dull.
    Tolleston was listening to Wally’s conversation and finally, when his impatience mastered him, cut in with: “All right, all right. They had big horses. They’re in Wintering already. Now, sheriff, let’s get down to business.” He glared at Webb. “I want to know all about this.”
    Patiently Wardecker reiterated his discovery of Webb sitting on the doorstep chained to the dead McWilliams’s wrist.
    â€œThat’s right,” Wally put in. “I was talking to McWilliams when I heard the shot.”
    â€œWhat’d you do then?” the sheriff asked.
    â€œThe hardcase leaning against the wall told me to get back to the office. Then I heard another shot. That must have been the one that got McWilliams.”
    Tolleston exploded. “What’s it got to do with the facts? I say McWilliams and this man were part of the