The War Wagon Read online

  Brotherly love

  "Did you get the gold shipment?" Christine asked Taw.

  Taw fumbled in his shirt pocket for a cheroot. "You seem to know more about what's going on than I do."

  She said tightly, "You got it. That means you'll be a dead man within twenty-four hours. Your brother will get somebody to do it for him."

  "Stop that talk!" Taw said to his brother's wife. But her voice rose hysterically. "That gold is a fortune! Do you think he'll share it? He's treacherous and greedy and he'd as soon kill you as—"

  Taw's open palm slapped across her face, then dropped quickly, gently, to her shoulder. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

  THE WAR WAGON

  was originally published by Fawcett Publications, Inc.

  Books by Clair Huffaker

  Badge for a Gunfighter*

  Cowboy

  The Cowboy and the Cossack*

  Flaming Lance

  Guns from Thunder Mountain*

  Guns of Rio Conchos*

  Posse from Hell*

  Seven Ways From Sundown*

  The War Wagon*

  *Published by POCKET BOOKS

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  CLAIR HUFFAKER

  The

  War

  Wagon

  (Formerly entitled Badman)

  PUBLISHED BY POCKET BOOKS NEW YORK

  THE WAR WAGON

  Crest edition published 1957

  POCKET BOOK edition published October, 1975

  All characters in this book are fictional and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  A shorter version of this novel originally appeared in Ranch Romances under the title Holdup at Stony Flat.

  This POCKET BOOK edition includes every word contained in the original, higher-priced edition. It is printed from brand-new platea made from completely reset, clear, easy-to-read type. POCKET BOOK editions are published by POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc., 630 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10020. Trademarks registered in the United States and other countries.

  Standard Book Number: 671-80101-5.

  This POCKET BOOK edition is published by arrangement with Clair Huffaker. Copyright, ©, 1957, by Clair Huffaker. All rights reserved. The War Wagon was formerly published under the title Badman. This book, or portions thereof, may not be reproduced by any means without permission of the author.

  Front cover illustration by Robert Schulz.

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  The

  War

  Wagon

  Chapter One

  IN THE stunted oak near the foot of the pass a sleepy sparrow hawk suddenly became alert, arching its head high. Alarmed, it stretched up, spreading itself. Then, wings thumping a hollow, rapid beat on the still air, it flapped away from its perch.

  The bird was a hundred feet high and gaining speed when the sound came. A low, rumbling sound as of distant thunder booming beyond the edge of the cloudless sky.

  In a moment two outriders came into sight. They topped a rise and held their blowing horses in briefly, the worked-up animals edging into choppy, side-stepping walks while the men searched the passage ahead with quick, restless eyes.

  Satisfied, they let the mounts move back into easy, deceptively swift lopes, their eyes still tirelessly exploring the hills and ridges to each side of the dusty trail before them.

  High above and to their right, two men watched from behind a stone breastwork near the top of a rocky ridged mountain. The taller of the two was a rangy, sun-hardened man of thirty, who wore a weathered buckskin jacket and a low-cut holster out of which arched the worn walnut handle of a Colt single-action .45. He had dark, steady eyes crinkled at the corners with laugh lines, and a smooth, marble-hard line of jaw. His hat was tipped down at an angle to shade his eyes, and he held a single blade of oak grass between his lips.

  He said in a low voice, "I guess you know. Those fellows are both packing about twenty pounds' worth of fighting equipment."

  "Of course I know." The other, a man in his mid-forties, had a sharp, intense face with a tight mouth and brooding eyes. The black bowler sitting square on his head, the conservative blue tie knotted carefully in the niche of his paper collar, and the few pencils peaking in an uneven row from the pocket of his black suit coat marked him a man of business. "Each man is carrying a Winchester repeater, lever-action, model seventy-three, two revolvers and a minimum of one hundred rounds of ammunition."

  "More than that," said the tall man, "they'd have to be damned handy with those guns, or Holiday wouldn't have them on the payroll."

  Two new pairs of riders came into sight. They were two hundred feet behind the first men and were fanned out, each couple about fifty feet from the edge of the road. They had gone some two hundred feet themselves, and the leading pair had disappeared around a bend a hundred yards from the rise, when the faint, growing rumble became a dull, quaking roar of movement.

  Then, great, whirling wheels churning up shifting mountains of gray dust, its eight-horse team sweating and straining against the massive weight, a black, windowless stagecoach armored with heavy steel plates plunged over the rise and lurched swiftly along the road. A driver and shotgun rider sat in the high, swaying seat. A second shotgun messenger, his weapon beside him, lay on top of the coach facing back along the road they'd just traveled. Fifty feet to each side of the black stage rode a group of four riders matching its speed so as to be always exactly at each flank. Sped on by thirty-two pounding hoofs, the stage plummeted down a slope in the pass and thundered along its way. Two more pairs of flanking riders burst over the rise in a few seconds. Before the coach rumbled quickly out of view, one last team of horsemen guarding the far rear galloped into sight. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the formidable procession had swept around the bend, leaving only a mist of wind-played dust settling lazily to the ground.

  "Well, Tawlin?" The intense man slapped his creased trousers where they'd collected a red coating from the rock in front of him. "What do you think?"

  Tawlin shifted the blade of grass thoughtfully. "I make it twenty-three men, not counting what's in the stage."

  "There are four men inside. They've got a good-sized arsenal in there with them. Six-guns, rifles and shotguns. The steel lining on the coach is quarter-inch tempered metal. Strong. There are slits, six inches by two inches, cut in the metal for the men inside to shoot from. You couldn't see the slits from here."

  "I saw them."

  They moved back to a clump of poplar where their horses were tied. Tawlin untied the hitch in the reins and slipped the leather thongs off the branch. When he'd swung to saddle he said, "Twenty-seven men. Twenty-seven Winchesters. A coach full of scatterguns. More than fifty revolvers. Good God! Are you sure they ain't got a cannon rigged up in that stage, Snyder?"

  Snyder took the question seriously. "There were rumors that Holiday was going to have a Gatling gun mounted on a platform over the rear boot. They never did it, though. I suppose they decided their defe
nses were already more than adequate." He went into the saddle awkwardly, kicking his mare on the rump as he put his foot over. She took a puzzled step forward before he had the reins tight. "You still haven't told me what you think, Tawlin."

  "Make it Taw. I think you're loco." Taw guided his pinto gelding adroitly into a dry creek while Snyder's mount tripped slightly on a large, smooth rock.

  "It can be done."

  "You'd need an army to take that gold coach."

  "Having an army help us is part of my plan," Snyder said. "But the details can wait until you show an interest in joining us."

  Shoes clattering over the stones, the horses reached the far side and climbed up the gentle bank.

  Snyder turned to the tall man. "Do you have any idea how much gold they carry on that Holiday coach when she pulls out of Deadwood?"

  "Used to work for old Chunk Holiday down on the Platte. There must be a fair-sized gold mine aboard to get him to pay twenty-seven men going wages."

  "She carries over a quarter of a million dollars on most runs."

  "That's pretty impressive. But the plain truth is, I don't want to die for any amount of money."

  Snyder frowned uncertainly. "Your reputation came to Pawnee Fork long before you. According to it you've come close to dying for nothing more than the fun of dangerous living. You're one of the top half-dozen gun-fighters in the country. I understand you even killed Billy Farango in Arizona, just before they sent you to Yuma Prison."

  Taw nodded. "You've been talking to my brother. What Jess didn't tell you is that I'm reformed and peaceful."

  Snyder grabbed at the pommel of his saddle as his mare shied away from a fluttering leaf. "Fool horse! Of course I've been talking to Jess. He also says you're broke. What are you going to do for money?"

  "I'm a fair cowhand."

  "Do you know how long it would take to earn a quarter of a million at herding cattle?" Snyder wrinkled his forehead in thought. "Close to a thousand years."

  Taw grinned. "Discouragin', ain't it?"

  They rode to the crest of a hill in front of them and far away on the plain stretching to the north was a small, busy town. Wagons and horses dotted the rutted roads leading through the scattered cabins and tents on the outskirts. Toward the center of the tiny metropolis the roads disappeared among a clutter of two- and three-story frame buildings.

  "Pawnee Fork," Snyder said.

  "Hell, I thought it would be just a couple of shacks."

  "Jess didn't say in his letter how the town's grown up? At the Fork here, the road branches out to Galena and Deadwood."

  They angled their horses down the steep slope before them and let them move at a walk toward the town. Snyder said, "Look, Taw. The reason I rode out to meet you and point out the Holiday stage is because Jess said you'd be right for it."

  "Jess is with you?"

  "Yes. It's human nature to want to be rich."

  "It's also human nature to want to go on living."

  Snyder sucked at his teeth. "I assume I can accept it at face value that no one named Tawlin is easily frightened."

  Taw turned his head to measure the other man slowly. He didn't bother answering.

  "Let's leave it this way." Snyder pulled at the slender gold chain across his vest and glanced at his watch. "Why don't you talk to Jess? Talk it over with him for a while. I've got to get to the store. I'll see the two of you together some time tomorrow."

  He pulled his bowler down tight and kicked his horse into a canter, riding on into town, his rear bouncing in the saddle at each of the mare's strides.

  Taw pulled his Colt part way from its holster and watched the cartridge chambers carefully as he rotated the cylinder with his thumb. Five shells. He lowered the hammer on the empty chamber and returned the gun softly to its easy position in the leather. Jess would have talked to others about his big brother who had shot Billy Farango. Somebody might want to try him for size.

  Riding along the streets of Pawnee Fork, Taw found that a stranger didn't get much attention in the town. Too many people passing through on their way to the gold fields, or going slowly back, beaten and disheartened.

  Taw stopped in front of the Hawkins Stable and slapped the pinto's shoulder. "You must be hungry as a horse, horse."

  He got down and told the boy who came out, "Give him six quarts of oats now and six more at night feeding. Make sure he has all the hay he can eat in between times."

  Taw crossed the street, his boots sinking into the soft blanket of dust covering it, and headed for a saloon on the corner. After a drink, he asked the barkeep where Jess Tawlin lived. He was directed to a large white house standing far out and alone at the end of Lincoln Street. The place was neatly kept, with fresh painted columns supporting a porch that ran almost the full width of the front of the house. Two steps led up from the leveled, rocky front yard to the front porch.

  Taw knocked at the door and stepped back. After a moment it swung out and a slender, dark-haired girl with large blue eyes and clear, delicate skin looked up at him. "Yes?" she asked.

  Taw touched the brim of his hat and said, "Does a man named Jess Tawlin board here?"

  "He lives here. Can I help you? I'm Mrs. Tawlin."

  Taw pushed his hat back and studied the girl with surprised curiosity. "Well, Jess must be grown up some since the last time I saw him. I—I didn't know—"

  "Who are you?"

  "I'm Jack Tawlin. Guess that kind of makes us related, ma'am."

  The girl frowned slightly. "You're the one they call Taw. I see. Well, he's not here. But I suppose you'd better come in."

  Taw dropped his eyes to a level with her waist. "No thanks, ma'am. I don't want to put you out. When Jess gets back, you might say I'm staying over at the hotel."

  The girl seemed unsure of herself. "Jess wouldn't like that. He'd want you to stay here."

  "I've already got a room there. Matter of fact, I'm supposed to meet a fellow there in a minute, so I'd better be getting on."

  "Which hotel is it?"

  "The one—just up Pawnee Street a ways. I forget its name."

  She shook her head and managed a faint smile. "Please come in. I'm sorry. My name's Christine." She stood away from the door and Taw took his hat off before stepping hesitantly into the house.

  In a primly elegant sitting room the girl gestured toward a stuffed, straight-backed chair. "Sit down and make yourself at home, Mr. Tawlin. Jess should be home inside the hour."

  Taw curled the rim of his hat self-consciously and looked from the girl to the chair with troubled eyes. "The thing is, ma'am, that maybe I oughtn't come busting in on you this way. Especially with me being—with things the way they are."

  "Is the law after you, Mr. Tawlin?"

  "No, ma'am. Not just now."

  "Then sit."

  "Yes'm."

  After he was in the chair, she took his hat from his hands and hung it on a coat tree in the corner. "I'll be back in a minute."

  When she'd gone out of the room, Taw leaned back and crossed his legs. He hadn't realized how dusty his boots were. Should have had them shined. And his spurs seemed glaringly out of place in the immaculate room. He uncrossed his legs.

  She came back carrying a tray with two daintily flowered cups and a matching pot. "I've made us tea," she said, pouring efficiently. "Sugar and cream?"

  "No, ma'am. Just black."

  The girl glanced at him and handed him a cup which was almost lost in his tanned, strong hand.

  "Thank you," he murmured.

  She sat across from him as he worked his spoon nervously in the cup. "What are your plans, Mr. Tawlin?"

  "Just to stop by and see Jess. I don't have any real plans exactly."

  "How long do you think you'll be in Pawnee Fork?"

  "Not long."

  "Do you intend to get a job here?"

  He caught her eyes squarely and said without anger, "What you're getting at isn't what you're saying, ma'am. You want to know if the bad brother is going to m
aybe poison the good brother, the one you married. I'll be on my way soon. If I'd known Jess was married, I wouldn't have come to Pawnee Fork."

  Christine put her cup down. "You don't look at all as I'd pictured you. I'd expected a man ten feet tall with a great, black beard, a roaring voice and at least a dozen guns buckled to his belt, from the way Jess and the others talk."

  "The others?"

  "You're known by hearsay to almost everyone in the Fork. People say that until you went to—prison—anyway," she said awkwardly, "that you were half-man and half-devil."

  "Folks talk a thing up too much."

  "Some of the stories had the sound of truth."

  Taw shifted in his chair. "How long have you and Jess been married?"

  "The near side of a year."

  A door shut at the rear of the house and Christine stood up. "That must be Jess now. I'll tell him you're here."

  Taw got up and put his cup on the small table. He could hear voices in a room beyond the sitting room, and a whoop of surprise. Then his brother strode into the room.

  Jess was a match for Taw in height and weight. Smiling fit to break his face, he clapped Taw around the shoulders and gave him a bear squeeze that was combined friendship and wrestling. "Taw! You old he-wolf!" he said loudly. "How the hell are you?"

  "All right." Taw stepped back. "You've filled out the skinniness since I saw you last."

  "Plenty of time to do it. Five years."

  Christine came into the room and Jess said, "Ain't he a somethin'! Almost as good-lookin' and husky as I am!"

  The girl said, "You'll want to talk. I promised Mrs. Leggan I'd sew with her for a time."

  When she'd gone, Jess turned to Taw once more. "I'll bet Christine was some surprised to see you, wasn't she?"

  "Yes. And not happy."

  "Ah, she's never happy about anything. Let's go into the kitchen and have a drink. I can't stand this room, she keeps it so damned proper."