“Calm down, Bill,” Andrews said.
“We’re riding,” Conn said, starting across the street toward where his gelding stood beside the horses of the three dead murderers.
“Hold on, Sullivan,” Marshal Andrews said, coming after him. “Don’t go riding off like that. Doing it that way would be vigilantism and would put us at odds.”
“These men need to die,” Conn said.
“Well, it sure sounds that way,” the marshal said. “But let me swear you in as deputies, and I’ll lead the posse. That way, it’ll be legal and none of us will get in trouble.”
Conn stopped. “All right. Let’s do it then. Swear us in.”
“Well,” the marshal said, “first, I gotta check things out. You gave your story, but I’d best at least ride out to your brother’s place and verify everything before we go running off, ready to shoot these fellas.”
Conn shook his head. “If you want to go out to my brother’s place, go ahead. I’m getting after these killers. Now.”
“Same here,” Sheffield said, riding up on a tall, black horse.
“Let’s go,” McKay shouted to the others.
Several men climbed into their saddles. Another came scampering up the street to join them.
The marshal looked back and forth with a troubled expression. Finally, he shook his head. “All right, all right. I can see you boys are all fired up and ready to go. I hope you’re telling the truth, Sullivan.”
“I always tell the truth,” Conn said, and untied his gelding from the doctor’s hitching post.
The marshal kind of swore them in, calling them all over and telling them to raise their right hands and having them repeat his words, which stumbled out of him in what sounded like a blend of memory and imagination.
Conn didn’t care how accurate the swearing in was. He said the words, just wanting to get after his brother’s killers.
“All right, men,” the marshal said. “You’re all deputies now. You take your orders from me.”
That’s when one of the volunteers, too drunk to stay in the saddle, fell off his horse and busted his arm. He set to wailing, and someone went for the doctor, who had disappeared from the crowd. Two others, apparently friends of the injured man, helped him to his feet.
“What a mess,” Conn growled.
“Yeah,” Sheffield said. “Let’s get out of here and see who keeps up. We don’t need the ones who can’t.”
“Good plan,” Conn said, happy to have the man along. He whistled sharply to the others. “Roll out!”
Marshal Andrews told them he had to go get his horse. It wouldn’t take but ten minutes.
“Catch up to us,” Conn said, moving forward. “We’re gonna get started before somebody else falls out of his saddle.”
Sheffield, McKay, and several others followed.
A moment later, they’d left Marshal Andrews, the howling drunk, his friends, and a few dead men behind.
13
Leaving town, they rode south for about a mile until they came to where the outlaws had split up.
Conn and the posse followed them across South Park basin. It was easy sticking to their trail until clouds blew in overhead, blocking the moon for lengthening stretches of time.
This slowed pursuit considerably, but neither Marshal Andrews nor any of the other volunteers caught up to them.
At one point, far in the distance, gunfire erupted in a rapid chorus of overlapping shots that echoed off the mountains and rolled faintly back to them across the broad basin.
“Trouble up there,” Conn said to Sheffield, who rode beside him.
