Trigger Gospel Read Free

“I sure beg your pardon, Bill. You go right ahead and put ribbons in that horse’s tail if you want to and it’ll be all right with me. But just the same, I think you’re takin’ a chance in dollin’ that animal up that-a-way. I can’t speak for the lady, but if it was me, I’d find it a little confusin’; I wouldn’t know just which one of you to choose.”
    â€œI’d take the horse,” Scotty Ryan called out.
    â€œI’m sure you would, Scotty,” Little Bill fired back. “A horse and a jackass ought to hit it off pretty good.”
    The laugh was on Scotty now, and they enjoyed it quite as much as though it had been on Bill. They returned to the attack then and kept at it until Maverick was ready for them. The cook ran a critical eye over the gelding.
    â€œFly speck there on the right stifle, Bill,” he cried. “Take care of that and you can come and get it!”
    They ate with a hearty appetite. The purple haze of twilight was beginning to settle down on the river bottom. Little Bill sat beside Tascosa.
    â€œThe joshin’s over, Bill,” said the old man. “The geldin’s a fine horse. But sure as fate somebody’ll try to steal him. If you’ll take my advice you’ll sell him. You can get a good price.”
    â€œNot a chance,” Bill answered bluntly. “Nobody but me is ever goin’ to ride him. He’s all I ever wanted in a horse, and I’m keepin’ him. The hombre that tries to lift him won’t live long.”
    â€œAll right, have it your way,” Tas grumbled. “But mark my words; that claybank will make you trouble. I never knew one that wa’n’t unlucky.”
    They had just lit their cigarettes when five mounted men appeared on the skyline across the river and headed for their camp. Luther was the first to see them.
    â€œMake out who they are?”. Tascosa demanded anxiously.
    â€œThey’re ridin’ with their rifles across their saddle bows,” Little Bill answered, his eyes narrowed on the oncoming horsemen. “It ain’t likely it’s the bunch we spotted on the Skull. That big fellow in the lead looks familiar.”
    A moment or two later he recognized the man.
    â€œIt’s Cash Beaudry, the so-called sheriff of Cimarron County,” he sneered.
    â€œIt’s Beaudry and a bunch of deputies, all right,” Luther seconded. “Their broncs look like they’d ridden ’em into the ground.”
    â€œLong riders—now the sheriff,” Tascosa muttered. “That usually makes sense.”
    â€œNot this time,” Little Bill rasped. “If Beaudry ever bumps into an outlaw’s way it’ll be by accident. He’s a cheap, double-crossin’ crook, accordin’ to the record. You know it as well as I do. There’s some connection between the Sontags and him, and that’s what gravels me—makin’ a splurge about runnin’ ’em down when he’s really trailin’ with ’em.”
    â€œI’ve heard it, but I don’t know it for a fact. If he’s comin’ here for grub he can have it. If it’s information he’s lookin’ for he won’t get it.”
    Tascosa tossed some brush on the fire. As it flamed up, the sheriff and his men forded the river and walked their jaded horses into the circle of firelight.
    â€œHi, boys,” Beaudry greeted them with a wave of his pudgy hand. He was a lantern-jawed individual with a wisp of black mustache that failed to hide his cruel mouth. “Smelled your fire a ways back. Didn’t know who we’d find here.”
    Tascosa stepped forward.
    â€œMaverick will shuffle up some grub for yuh if yuh’ll light,” he said.
    â€œNo time for that tonight, Tascosa,” Beaudry returned. “Much obliged just the same. Where you from?”
    â€œDown to the Kiowa country. Jest pulled in here about