Taek Won Do #2: Chains - TWENTY-SIX

"Awright," said Morisson, his voice slightly angry. "Awright, Robinson, if yer loco 'nuff t' waste time buryin' 'im, then I'll hep' ya."

A faint drizzle had commenced soon after the Hares had ridden off.

Robinson stood outside the shack with a shovel gripped in his hand. "There's no need for that, Mr. Morisson. We have a long journey ahead of us. It would be best if you rested."

"Aw, nutz." Morisson took one step out of the shack. "I'm in as good shape as any Easterner who...." He gave a sudden lurch, slamming into the doorjamb.

Robinson dropped the shovel and caught him. "Inside with you," he told the giant as he guided him across the dirt floor to the nearest cot. "Rest here. You're not recovered from all that happened to you."

"That gul-durn Smokes," said Morisson. "Hittin' on me when 'e was tryin' t' find....I guess...." He let out a groan and stretched out on the cot. "'urt me more 'n I figgered."

Robinson moved for the doorway.

"Robinson?"

"Yes?"

"Been a'meanin' t' ask ya....when ya went out t' face them Utes," said the stretched-out giant. "Guess ya weren't 'fraid at all?"

"A man can be afraid," said Robinson, "and yet do what must be done." He walked outside, heading for the place beyond the cabin where he had carried Smokes's body.

Morisson rested the knuckles of one big hand on his forehead. Up above him, the rain hit gently on the roof of the shack. He closed his eyes, and lost track of the next few minutes.

Then, with a growl, he sat up, reaching for the nickel-plated revolver he'd taken from Smokes's holster.

"Don't," suggested Sergeant Crawford. He stood inside just to the left of the door, his Springfield rifle pointed at Morisson.

Morrison's hands closed twice. "Dang," he said.

"Where's Robinson?"

"Don't got no idee-er," replied the giant. "'E brought me 'ere an' lef' me, cause I'm too banged up t' keep a'goin'. 'E wen' on 'lone, dunno where."

"Morisson," said Crawford, "you're not smart enough to lie. Where is Robinson?"

"Ah done tol' ya!"

"We'll wait for him."

"He ain't a'comin' back," insisted the big man. "Ah got muhself shot, Crawford. Ah mebbe need a doctor t' look after me, y'know. Take me back."

"You were shot by whom?" asked the sergeant as he came closer.

"Ol' trapper name o' Kennedy," said Morisson, tugging at his shirt collar and unfastening the top button. "Y'know him?"

"Oh, yes, I know Kennedy." With his rifle, he probed at the herbal compress and gave the wound a fast inspection. "Nothing very serious, Morisson. You'll live. We'll wait around here for a while in case..." The fingers of his free hand poked at the bulging pocket of the big man's shirt. "What's that?"

"Ain't nuttin'. Jus' m' tobacky n' fixin's."

Sergeant Crawford yanked out the pouch. He carried it a few feet away and opened it. "So," he said softly.

"'Ay! That's mine," said Morisson, rising.

"I'll kill you if you take one more step, Morisson."

"Thaz mine! I dug it!" Morisson's eyes shifted from the nugget pouch to the rifle barrel. He sat on the cot. "That there's m' share. 'Cause Logan Brock is daid...Ollie Potts kilt him, I done tol' ya that. An' Potts's daid, too, now an' 'is sister...."

"Be quiet," ordered Crawford. He rubbed two bright nuggets between his fingers. "There was gold after all."

"Whatcha figgerin' t' do?" asked Morisson.

"Wait," said the sergeant.502Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVQVNO5JR47
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Robinson was still shoveling earth into Smokes's grave when his sharp ears picked up---what was it? A sound too faint to be called a sound, the merest suggestion of Morisson's growling voice. He laid the shovel aside.

There should be no one at the cabin for Morisson to be talking to.

Warily, silently, Robinson moved back to the house. It would not be John Robinson returning to the claim, he realized, for Morisson's reaction would have been considerably louder. The probability was that Crawford had at last found them.

Robinson sighed. If Crawford's search had taken him even one hour longer, both might have been spared this dangerous confrontation. But Robinson could not let him take Morisson to be executed for a murder he hadn't committed.

As he drew nearer the cabin, he could hear the muted voices more clearly and recognized Crawford's inflection. Since Crawford had not already shot Morisson, the giant would be safe, Robinson calculated, unless the situation changed. Robinson's arrival would very definitely change the situation....so when he made his move it would have to be lightning swift, to reduce the danger to all of them. Assessing his chances, he stood immobile behind the cabin in the drizzling rain. Then he reached a decision.502Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqxUYBBen79
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Twilight came, and the rain stopped.

Sergeant Crawford drew a pair of manacles out of his uniform. "I think I better go have a look for our friend Robinson.

"He's far 'way from 'ere b'now," said Morisson.

"We'll find out." Crawford snapped one manacle to the big man's good wrist, the other to a leg of the cot. "You stay put here, Morisson, don't make a single sound. I'd as soon bring you in dead as alive."

"Ain't no use makin' noise 'er yellin'," said the giant. "Robinson ain't nowhere 'round t' hear."

The sergeant, rifle resting on one arm, stepped out into the dusk. There was only silence to greet him and a gathering of dark.

Then Robinson dropped down on him from the roof of the shack.

The Springfield was snapped from Crawford's grip. The sergeant twisted and tried to elbow Robinson away. The two of them fell to the wet ground.

Crawford kicked one booted foot up towards Robinson's midsection.

Robinson caught the heel in cupped hands, and levered Crawford over and away from him.

Crawford splashed hard onto the muddy earth. He pushed himself up to a kneeling position.

He straightened out all at once, face flat into the dirt. Robinson had him down with a hand against the back of his neck.

The lanky Robinson picked up Crawford and brought one of the sergeant's arms up behind his back. "We will go back inside now."

Crawford went.502Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡI1NL2aNdVZ

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