White Lightning by Lyle Brandt Page B

place low on the ground, he made the final gunman jerk and dance before he fell.
    Slade’s ears were ringing, but he still made out a voice calling from somewhere in the darkness to the north. “Hoke? Harry?
Anybody?
”
    Scrambling to his feet, Slade ran in that direction, but he wasn’t fast enough. Before he’d covered half the estimated distance, he heard rapid hoofbeats fading in the night, first there, then gone. He saw more horses milling in confusion, riderless.
    Damn it!
    “It’s me,” he called to Naylor, as he hiked back into camp. “Don’t shoot.”
    “You took your time,” said Naylor. “Figured I was done there, for a second.”
    “Sorry. Had my hands full,” Slade replied. “One got away.”
    “I guess that’s bad,” Naylor surmised.
    “It can’t be good,” Slade said.
    “Don’t know how much you heard,” said Naylor, as they searched the bodies, coming up with nothing to identify the dead.
    “Only the last bit,” Slade replied. “About my ass.”
    “The one who did their talking for ’em said they were expecting two of us.
Two marshals, we was told,
the way he put it. So my question would be—”
    “Told by who?” Slade finished for him.
    “That’s exactly right.”
    “Someone in Stateline, I imagine.”
    “Yeah, but
who
told
them
?”
    Slade thought about it. “Any warning had to come from Enid, way I see it. Hard to see a rider reaching Stateline, passing word in time for guns to turn around and meet us here, but they’re connected by the telegraph. Someone in town knew what we’ve been assigned to do and sold us out.”
    “It wouldn’t be the judge,” said Naylor.
    “No. But someone in the courthouse could’ve done it. Or somebody that a courthouse worker spoke to, talking out of turn.”
    “Maybe the undertaker?”
    “I don’t picture Holland Mattson having any truck with moonshiners,” Slade said, “but I can’t tell you it’s impossible.”
    “Another marshal?”
    That gave Slade a sour feeling in his stomach, worsening because he couldn’t absolutely rule it out. Instead of answering, he said, “We need to bring their horses into camp before they wander off.”
    “What for?” Naylor inquired.
    “To load these four at first light, for the trip to Stateline,” Slade replied.
    “You want to take ’em in?”
    “Sure thing. And see who’s waiting for them. Maybe who looks disappointed when we turn up with the bad boys draped across their saddles.”
    “Right. Okay. Sounds like a lot of work, though.”
    “Could be worse,” Slade said. “They might be packing you.”
    “You always this much fun to travel with?” asked Naylor.
    “Hard to say,” Slade answered him. “I’m normally alone.”
    The dead men’s horses hadn’t strayed when Slade andNaylor reached them, each man leading two back to the camp, where they were hobbled near the roan and Appaloosa. Slade refused to load the animals with their late riders yet and leave them standing under deadweight all night long, which left them only one alternative. They dragged the corpses out of camp and far enough away to spare themselves from any trouble with coyotes in the hours that remained till sunrise.
    “We’ve got some answers due in Stateline,” Naylor said when it was done.
    “We do,” Slade said, “but we should take it easy. Stick to what we planned, after we drop those four with whoever’s in charge. Find out what happens when we light a fire under the pot.”
    “You’re pretty sly,” said Naylor.
    “When I need to be. Like now.”
    “Hey, thanks for helpin’ out before. I likely could’ve taken ’em, you know, but why hog all the glory?”
    “Right,” Slade said. “Especially when there’s enough to go around.”
    “My thought exactly,” Naylor said.
    And Slade suspected there would be more opportunities in Stateline, too. Someone was anxious to prevent them getting there—which made him all the more determined to proceed.

7
    Flynn Rafferty was in his office