The Vengeance Seeker 3

by Will C. Knott

  Somewhat relieved that Laura Placer would not be on hand when he moved in on Hanks—and possibly Weed—Wolf guided his horse out from behind the pines and urged it to a fast gallop down the slope toward the compound—his Winchester in his right hand, his reins in the other. The jolting ride down the side of the hill was soon over and as the black took a small wall with an easy jump, Wolf saw Hanks step quickly out of the shop.

  When Hanks saw Wolf bearing down on him, he darted back into the blacksmith shop and reappeared a second later with a six-gun. Wolf, galloping full-tilt, took the reins in his teeth and raised his Winchester to his left shoulder. As Hanks got off a frantic shot, Wolf sighted quickly and squeezed the trigger.

  Hanks buckled, then ducked out of the shop’s doorway and staggered into the barn, firing back at Wolf as he went. Wolf dismounted while his black was still moving, slapped it on the rump to get it out of the way, and darted toward the barn, crouching low as he ran. A shot from inside caused the dirt to erupt at Wolf’s feet and he ducked behind a fence post.

  He waited a moment and when there were no more shots from the barn’s interior, he levered a cartridge into the breech of his Winchester and fired into the barn. Levering rapidly, he poured a deadly volley through the gaping doorway and then—keeping low and still firing—he left the fence post and bolted across the yard and into the barn.

  He thought he saw a movement in the rear of the barn, behind one of the stalls. Raising the Winchester, he squeezed off a quick shot. Too late, he heard the scuttle of hay over his head. Even as he tried to bring the Winchester up and around, Hanks’ body plunged down out of the rafters and struck Wolf on the shoulder.

  The Winchester went flying as Wolf himself was sent tumbling forward along the barn floor, the loose hay accelerating him as he came up hard against the side of a stall. Looking back at Hanks, he saw the man—a pitchfork in his hand—raise himself from one knee and launch himself at Wolf. Wolf only had time to face the man’s charge. There was no time to draw his six-gun. At the last minute he ducked flat, the tines of the pitchfork lifting off his hat and just grazing the top of his head as they slammed into the soft wood of the stall.

  Hanks tried to yank the pitchfork free. Wolf raised himself and reached out for Hanks. The pitchfork came loose and Hanks went reeling back out of Wolf’s range. Wolf followed him, his hand dropping to his six-gun. But there was nothing there. The Colt must have jumped out when he was hit earlier. Hanks saw the surprise on his face and grinned as he brought the pitchfork around and leveled it at Wolf.

  “This is it, Caulder,” Hanks cried, breathing heavily and starting toward Wolf.

  Wolf saw the spreading stain on the left side of his shirt and Levi’s. He had hit him then. But the man was still game. Wolf crouched and waited for Hanks’ rush.

  It came suddenly. Wolf stood his ground, dodged nimbly to one side—but not fast enough. One tine caught the top of his shirt and a second later lanced into the flesh of his left shoulder, then passed on through. With his right hand Wolf reached over and grabbed the handle of the pitchfork. Hanks tried to pull up, but his momentum carried him flush against Wolf, who brought his right elbow quickly back and around, wresting the fork from Hanks and knocking him backward the same time.

  Wolf’s elbow caught Hanks in the face, mashing his nose to a pulp. It staggered him and he reeled back, holding on to his shattered nose. Wolf had the pitchfork now and followed Hanks across the floor as the man, moving backward rapidly, lost his footing on the hay-slippery floor and fell. His hands flew back to catch him and were swallowed up in a loose shock of hay.

  Resting flat on his back in the hay, Hanks looked up at Wolf—a sudden wild, triumphant smile on his bloody face. As if by magic, Wolf’s Colt appeared in Hanks’ right hand. The man’s hand had found it when he slammed down into the hay.

  Wolf ducked as he saw the man’s finger tighten on the trigger. As the gun belched fire and leaped in Hanks’ hand, Wolf lunged forward. The bullet ricocheted off one of the tines, and the fork tugged wildly in Wolf’s hands, but he steadied it quickly and kept driving.

  Hanks screamed as he saw the onrushing tines and tried to roll away and fire up at Wolf all at the same time. The tines caught the man in the neck, cutting his scream off abruptly. Hanks eyes bugged wildly. He dropped the gun and tried to pull the tines out of his neck; but Wolf had driven them forward with such force that they were deeply embedded in the stable’s floor.

  Wolf picked up his six-gun and stepped back. Hanks’ fingers were feebly plucking at the tines as tiny gouts of blood flowed over the tines and down his darkening shirt front.

  The man tried to say something to Wolf. Wolf could not make out the words. He was about to pull out the pitchfork when the man’s mouth went suddenly slack and both eyes turned into motionless marbles staring whitely up past Wolf at the rafters of the barn. Wolf yanked the pitchfork free and flung it into the hayloft.

  Stepping over the dead man, he retrieved his Winchester and left the barn, darted across the yard and into the ranch house—hoping for some sign of Weed Leeper.

  He found nothing—except a small piece of bloody bandage stuck down behind the cushions of the divan. Looking at the divan closely he noted how crushed the cushions were. Someone, he was almost certain, had been using this piece of furniture as a bed. He didn’t think Laura Placer and Charlie Hanks would be sleeping apart, so that left only one other possibility: Weed Leeper.

  Still, it was not much to go on.

  Frustrated, Wolf left the cabin and started across the yard to where his horse was grazing on some lush grass beside a corral pole. He was in the middle of the yard when he heard the rapid thunder of hooves. Looking quickly to his right, he saw Laura Placer riding full tilt toward him across the pasture. She had heard the shots, he realized.

  A rifle flashed in her hands and as she rode, she brought it up and squeezed off a shot. Wolf went down on one knee as the bullet sighed past his ear. He had not wanted to kill the woman. She had been part of the Tipton Train Massacre; but he had long since decided against killing her—if it were possible.

  But she was deciding for him right now. Another shot crackled from her rifle and he felt the bullet move past his left sleeve. As her horse took the low fence bringing her into the compound, Wolf raised his Winchester, levered a cartridge into the breech, tracked her and squeezed the trigger.

  He worked the lever quickly again, but it was not necessary. Laura Placer flung up both hands and went tumbling sideways off her horse. She lay where she had fallen as her horse veered suddenly and galloped out through the gate. Wolf got back up on his feet and walked over to her.

  She was lying on her back with her six-gun in her right hand; but it was obvious she had no strength left with which to raise it, let alone fire it. A ragged hole in her chest was spreading rapidly, fouling the white shirt and vest she wore.

  “Charlie ... ?” she whispered huskily, tears coursing down her cheeks. “Is Charlie ...?”

  Wolf went down on one knee beside her and took the six-gun gently from her hand. “Yes,” he told her. “Charlie’s dead.”

  “And I am, too.”

  “I’m … sorry,” he said. “I didn’t want to kill you.”

  With great difficulty she focused her eyes on his face. “All those people on the train ... terrible ... I’m sorry.” Suddenly she reached up with one hand, grabbed his vest and pulled him closer. “Weed …” she managed. “He’s going after ... Mary ...”

  Before he could ask her anything more, her hand released his vest and her head fell back lifeless into the dust.

  Mary had spent most of the morning moving furniture and dishes from the dugout to their new cabin and the rest of it washing clothes. Now she was outside the old dugout, hanging the clothes out to dry on the clothesline Dan had strung for her. She was hurrying because it was close to dinnertime and Dan and Bobby were already inside, washing up.

  As she took the last sheet from the basket and draped it over the line, s
he looked beyond the clothesline and saw the rider, a Mexican, cutting over from the river toward her. She took the clothespins from her mouth and pinned down both corners of the sheet and then looked again at the approaching rider.

  He seemed to be coming directly for her. She could not see his face. It was lost in the shadow cast by the enormous rim of the sombrero, but something about the way he held himself on the horse troubled her vaguely. She reached down for the empty basket and started to walk across the grass toward the cabin entrance and noticed that the Mexican shifted his horse’s direction just enough to intercept her.

  She stopped and, holding her right hand up to shade her eyes, peered intently at the face of the rider. He was closer now and she could see that the man’s face was covered with a short, unruly stubble of a beard. And then she noticed the eyes. They burned with a kind of malignance as they fastened on her. At once she knew who it was, dropped the basket, and began to run toward the cabin.

  At once Weed spurred his horse to a gallop, cutting her off.

  Mary halted and looked up at him. “Weed!” she pleaded. “Leave me be! Please!”

  “Leave you be!” Weed cried, grinning wolfishly. “I’m going to punish you, Mary—and then I’m going to take you back with me! They ain’t no way you going to get free of me this time.”

  His fang-like teeth gleamed in his dark face and Mary shuddered. “I won’t go back with you!” she hissed. “I won’t!”

  Weed lifted his head in laughter. “And who in hell said you was going to have any choice in the matter?”

  He reached down and grabbed Mary by the wrists; but when he attempted to pull her onto his horse, she yanked herself free and screamed. As she started to run for the cabin, she saw her father bolting through the cabin doorway, a shotgun in his hand.

  It was Bobby who had told Dan of the Mexican, and it was Mary’s scream that had brought him running. As he emerged from the cabin, he saw Mary, a few feet in front of the Mexican’s horse, running for the cabin. The Mexican turned in his saddle to face Dan. He was wearing a large sombrero and a quite colorful poncho that covered his torso from the shoulders down and hid his hands from Dan as well.

  As Mary ran toward him, she yelled, “It’s Weed! Weed Leeper!”

  “Get down, Mary!” Dan cried. “Get down! I can’t shoot! You’re in my line of fire!”

  A rifle’s snout poked out of Weed’s poncho. Dan saw it and tried to throw himself to one side. It barked, belching fire—and Dan felt something strike his thigh, knocking his leg out from under him. The rifle cracked again, and this second bullet struck him in the chest, its impact flipping him over onto his back. He had lost his shotgun when he fell; and as he tried to roll over to retrieve it, he found that all the wires were down. He couldn’t even move his fingers, let alone roll over. His breath was coming in short, painful gasps, and it felt like something pretty goddamned heavy was sitting on his chest. All he could do was stare up at the sky.

  The sound of a horse’s hooves thundered close to his head and in a moment the belly of a horse blocked out the sky as the animal rode over him. But the horse was careful and did not bring his hooves down on any part of him. Dan found himself staring up at Weed Leeper.

  The man was leaning out over his saddle, inspecting Dan like he was a piece of butchered carcass that hadn’t been hung up yet. A Colt materialized in his right hand from under the poncho. The sound of its hammer clicking back filled the universe. Dan closed his eyes and waited for the impact of the bullet.

  Instead, he heard Bobby’s cry and a high shriek of fury from Mary. Opening his eyes, he saw Bobby pulling Weed from his horse while Mary’s fists flailed furiously at Weed. Weed dropped the six-gun as he fell heavily to the ground. But he was up in an instant and with one brutal punch knocked Bobby senseless to the ground. Then he grabbed Mary by one wrist and began slapping her in the face. Again and again, he brought his hand back and forth. As she sagged to the ground, he picked his Colt out of the grass and struck her one vicious blow across the cheekbone with the gun barrel.

  It snuffed out her cries instantly.

  In an agony of despair because he could not go to Mary’s aid, Dan tried to arouse himself; but the heaviness in his chest only increased. He closed his eyes. He could not bear to see any more. When he opened them again, he saw Weed draping Mary’s limp body over the pommel.

  Weed turned then to look at Dan. “If you hear me, Tyler—you can tell Wolf Caulder I’ll be waiting for him.”

  Then he swung into his saddle and rode off.

  Eleven

  The first thing Wolf saw was the boy. He was sitting in the grass not too far from the cabin.

  Wolf roweled his already exhausted black into a faster gallop, and as he got closer he saw that Bobby was cradling something in his lap.

  Bobby did not even look up as Wolf flung himself from his horse a moment later and ran to his side. The boy kept his head lowered, his red-rimmed eyes staring down at the dead face of his father. It was Dan Tyler’s head Bobby was cradling in his lap and as Wolf watched, the boy brushed away a fly—then bent and kissed the pale forehead.

  Only then did Bobby turn to face Wolf. “It was Weed Leeper, Mr. Caulder. He took Mary back—and he said he was waiting for you. Pa told me to tell you that before he died.”

  Wolf nodded. The scene before him was like a painful vise tightening about his heart. He knew there was nothing he could possibly tell the boy that would make his loss any the more bearable, and he wondered how long the boy had been sitting like this, the head of his dead father in his lap.

  “When did it happen, Bobby?”

  “This morning—just before dinner.” The boy looked around him then and suddenly shivered. It was close to nightfall and the grass was already damp. A chilling breeze was sweeping across the flats from the river.

  “I think we’d better get inside, Bobby,” Wolf said.

  “No. I don’t want to leave Pa out here all night ...” He looked down into his father’s face. “He’ll get cold.”

  “All right, then. We won’t let him get cold. We’ll bury him—near the river.”

  Bobby nodded at once. “Yes,” he said. “Pa would like that. Near the river. I know a spot.”

  Wolf reached down and took Bobby’s hand and gently pulled him to his feet. “You go find the spot, Bobby—and I’ll get a sheet to wrap him in—so he won’t be cold.”

  Wolf watched Bobby walk across the field toward a clump of cottonwoods on a small bluff overlooking the river, then started for the cabin to find a bed sheet heavy enough to wrap about Dan Tyler’s body and keep out the cold.

  The next morning Wolf saddled one of the work horses for Bobby and the two of them rode down the river to the next farm. He left Bobby with the family and after promising Bobby that he would return soon with his sister, he rode off—grateful not to have to look any more into Bobby’s stunned eyes. After the burial Bobby had not wanted to leave the grave-site and he had spent the night wide awake in his bunk, staring up at the dark ceiling.

  Now, as he rode, he remembered another boy Bobby’s age who also lay awake nights—long, long nights—staring up at a dark ceiling ...

  The door to Wolf’s bedroom opened and Diego stood in the doorway, a lighted lantern held in his right hand. Wolf turned to face him.

  Diego walked into the room and placed the lantern down on the table beside Wolf’s bed. Then he sat on the edge of the bed.

  “You still do not sleep, my young cub.”

  “I don’t want to sleep.”

  “I see. It is the bad dreams that wait for you.”

  “No.”

  “Then why? You must sleep.”

  “I don’t want to sleep.”

  “What do you see when you look up at the ceiling?”

  “Nothing. I see nothing.” He looked then at Diego. “Why can’t I see them again? Like they were before ...”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Before ... when I slept through days and nights
... when I was sick ... I saw them. They talked to me. Mother sat beside my bed. And Pa, he stood beside her and smiled. But now they are gone! I am better, so they have left me!”

  “Yes, my cub. They are in heaven now, do you not see why? They are in heaven waiting for your vengeance.”

  “My vengeance!”

  “That which you will seek for them—and for you. They wait for that, my young wolf cub. In heaven they pray for that. And afterward—then—you will see them again. But first you must grant them that for which they hunger.”

  Diego stood up and took the lantern off the table.

  “Now sleep,” he told Wolf. “And dream. Dream of your vengeance. It will be sweet, my young wolf cub …”

  Diego left the room quickly, closed the door firmly behind him—and Wolf slept that night at least and dreamed of his vengeance: a series of prodigious good deeds about the ranch, after which his mother and father returned to life—and all was as before ...

  The sun was still high when Wolf reached the Indian River Range. As he had before, he followed the river into the mountains rather than the trail over the ridge. Leeper would be waiting for him on the ridge trail, he was certain.

  Following the river upstream, Wolf kept his black close against the sheer wall of rock that hemmed in the swift water. At last he came to the spot where earlier he had noticed the circling vultures. Then he came to the small stream trickling through the rock wall, dismounted, removed his Winchester from its sling, and climbed up through the stream, walking as before through the stream bed, the swift water piling up against his boots.