Brady Monk!
Brady Monk’s dark eyes swept over the room, then focused on the tall man at the table. He smiled coldly. “Well, it’s a small world sure enough. Hiya, Bo, boy!”
Rangle didn’t answer, his right hand dropping to his gun butt as the party threaded its way through the tables towards him. It was three months since he’d seen Brady Monk, his old lieutenant from the days of Rangle’s Raiders. The last he’d seen of Monk and the others, they’d been hemmed in by the soldiers in that pass in the Whiplock Mountains where he’d left them to die.
Monk sauntered up to the table and then halted, hands on hips, still grinning. Monk was part Cherokee, part Negro and half white. In him was an unfathomable quality of devilishness that could be traced to no distinguishable ancestry. He was a man of various talents, all of them bad. Monk was almost as broad as he was wide. His heavily creased face, reddish brown in color, was almost square. His teeth were sharp and pointed like a dog’s, and he seemed to be showing all of them now.
“What’s this, Bo?” Monk said, sounding hurt. “No friendly word for your old pard? Well, what about Ruby? You must have a cheery word for Ruby at least?”
The raven-haired girl smiled uncertainly at Rangle from behind Monk’s broad shoulder. Like Monk, Ruby Ballard was an old associate. She’d been Rangle’s mistress before he’d thrown her over for Tara Killane. He’d left Ruby, sick with dysentery, at the mining town of Tincup in the Whiplocks.
“Hello, Bo,” the girl said hesitantly.
Rangle still didn’t reply. He was watching Monk, waiting for the first warning flicker in the man’s eyes that would bring his Colt up thundering. Brady was the best henchman he’d ever had and he knew he wasn’t the breed to forgive or forget.
The saloon quietened as the drinkers realized something was building up in the corner. The towners knew Brady Monk well. The killer and his henchmen had been living in Devil’s Fork for two months. Nobody knew what kept Brady Monk in Devil’s Fork, but they did know he was the town’s most dangerous citizen. And Brady looked dangerous right now, despite his toothy grin.
“Well, gee, this ain’t what I expected,” Monk drawled after a tense half-minute’s silence. “Ain’t you even gonna invite me to take a chair, Bo?”
Rangle’s eyes flicked past Monk at the faces behind him. He looked at black-bearded Stacey Jagger, beanpole Scott Cassidy, barrel-chested Joe Buffalo, runty Perry Reagan. None of them was smiling. All he saw in their cruel faces was hate. It was what he expected to see and it didn’t shake him. They were hardcases, but small-time. Monk was the one he had to worry about. Monk was a tiger.
Rangle pushed out a chair with his toe. “Take a seat then, Brady,” he said quietly. “The rest of you—back off.”
“They stay,” Monk said, dropping into the chair. He gestured at the vacant chair on his right. “Ruby.”
The girl moved behind Monk and sat down. Rangle had always thought Ruby a pretty girl, but the past two months had left their marks. Ruby looked older, drawn. But she still had a fine figure, and something in her eyes suggested that she still remembered the good times they’d shared.
Monk turned his big head as a burly figure ranged up behind Rangle.
“Everything all right, Bo?” Rack Stonehill asked.
“Who’s this?” Monk demanded.
Rangle gave a small smile. “Friend of mine, Brady.”
Brady Monk wasn’t grinning now. “Beat it—friend.”
“He stays,” Rangle rapped.
Monk glared at Stonehill for a long moment, then brought his dark eyes back to Rangle. “All right—so let’s cut the crap, eh, Bo?” His voice was hard now.
“Whatever you say, Brady.”
“We’ve been waitin’ for you to come back.”
“I kind of guessed that.”
“I knew you’d come. I knew that one day you’d come back for the dinero. I was ready to wait a year, or until I heard they’d rubbed you out.”
“You should know by now that I can’t be killed, Brady.”
“Mebbe not. But you don’t give a damn who else might get killed because of you. You shouldn’t have run out on us in the Whiplocks, Bo.”
“What’s your beef, Brady? You’re still alive, ain’t you?”
“Only through luck ... no credit to you. Those bluebellies were fixin’ to rush us that day when Stacey found a crevice in the cliff behind us. We got clear all right, but we had to walk a week to get across the badlands and we damn near died of thirst.”
“You’re breakin’ my heart. So you got away from the bluecoats, you waited here for me to show, and now I’ve shown. What now, Brady boy?”
“You really don’t give a damn about anybody but yourself, do you, Rangle? You never did.”
“You’re talkin’ a lot and sayin’ nothin’. Spit it out, Monk. What now?”
Brady Monk sucked in a deep breath. “All right, I’ll level with you. We heard you’d hit town, and I could’ve blasted you to hell without you ever knowin’ where the bullet came from. You’ve sure got it comin’, mister, but that ain’t good enough for me. I ain’t waited around in this dead hole for three months just for the satisfaction of payin’ you out.”
“Let me guess why then. The gold?”
“Right. You’re goin’ after it, ain’t you?”
“Maybe.”
“No maybes. That’s why you’re here right enough.” Monk leaned forward. “I’m goin’ with you, Bo. We’re all goin’ with you. And you’re gonna cut us in because that gold is as much ours as it is yours. That plain enough for you?”
“You always had the knack of makin’ yourself plain.”
“What’s your answer then? Yes or no?”
“What if I say no?”
“I’ll kill you.”
Rangle’s green eyes glittered. “You reckon you’re big enough to do that, Brady?”
“There’s only one way to find out.”
“You’d face me? Man to man?”
“You know I will.”
Nodding slowly, Bo Rangle half-smiled. Sure, Brady would be ready to face him, despite the fact that Bo Rangle was considered by many to be unbeatable with a six-gun. Brady would face him because he had more raw guts than any man Rangle had ever known. And Brady just might pull it off. Rangle knew he was faster than Monk, but his ex-lieutenant was a bull. He was the kind you’d have to hit square between the eyes to make sure you stopped him, otherwise he’d keep coming. No doubt about it, Brady had been the best segundo a man could have. But that was in the past, Rangle reminded himself. The man seated across the table was no longer his partner, just another on a long, long list of enemies.
“Let’s look at it the other way around, Brady,” Rangle said. “What if I say yes?”
“I want half.”
Rangle’s brows lifted. “Half? That sounds kind of greedy.”
“Call it what you crave. I was with you when you grabbed that gold wagon, Bo, and I stuck by you for eight damned months afterwards until you ratted out on me. I got half comin’.”
Rangle’s long-boned face didn’t change expression, but inside he let ice seep into his blood. Until now he’d been conjuring with the idea of shaking hands with Brady Monk and coming to some kind of a deal. With only four left in the band now, he could use Brady and the boys, and he would have been prepared to give them a generous cut when it was all over. But half of two hundred thousand? He’d drink hemlock with the devil first.
“Well?” Monk snapped when a long minute had gone by.
“I’ll have to talk it over with my boys,” Rangle replied. He jerked a thumb at Stonehill who had been joined by Ward Bishop behind his chair. “They’re my partners, Brady. I’ve promised them a cut, so they’ve got a big say in this.”
Suspiciously, Monk looked up at the outlaws. “They’re nothin’ but Johnny-come-latelies, Bo. They’ve got no claim on the dinero.”
“Sorry, but that’s the way it’s got to be.”
Monk glowered,
then he turned as the girl spoke.
“It’s only fair, Brady,” Ruby Ballard said. “You were angry when you thought Bo had dumped you, so—”
“Thought?” Monk cut in angrily. “What’s this ‘thought’ hog swill, Ruby? He did dump me, just like he dumped you.”
Rangle’s eyes brightened as he looked at the girl. There was still something there, he was sure of it now. And that could come in mighty handy ...
“She’s right,” Rangle said. “It is only fair that I talk it over with my boys first.” He pushed erect. “It won’t take long.”
“Where do you think you’re goin’?” Monk challenged. “You wanna talk, you talk here where I can hear you.”
“No. If we’ve got any chance of teamin’ up again, you’ve got to trust me.” Rangle flashed his smile. “Now you just take it easy, Brady, while I have a drink and a talk with the boys. Care to join us, Ruby?”
Monk’s hand closed over the girl’s wrist. “Ruby stays here. She’s my woman now, Rangle.”
“Well, so that’s how things are?” Rangle smiled again. “Who’d have thought it? Brady and Ruby. But that’s all right. I left Ruby and she’s got the right to take up with whoever she pleases. But what harm is there in a drink, man? Hell, she can listen to all I’ve got to say, just to keep things honest.”
Monk slowly released his grip on the girl’s arm. “All right, Bo. But I’ll be watchin’. You make one wrong move and—”
“No chance, Brady. I’m too young and good-lookin’ to die.” Rangle grinned broadly, nodded to Stonehill and Checker, then he led the way to the bar with Brady Monk’s dark eyes boring into his back.
Chapter Seven
Wild Night at Whisky Bob’s
“To old times, Ruby.”
“Old times, Bo.”
Their eyes met and held over the rims of the glasses as they drank. She looked uncertain, he thought, as if she were trying to read what was really going on behind his eyes. Rangle lowered his glass to the bar, his fingers deliberately brushing against her arm. She trembled a little at the contact, and he was growing more certain by the moment that the fires he’d once lit in dark-haired Ruby might be banked, but they were still burning.
He turned his head and spoke in an undertone to Rack Stonehill. “Back off a little, Rack. I got somethin’ private to say to the girl.”
Standing at the bar with Checker, Bishop, and a bleary-eyed Jack Clanton who they’d had to kick awake, Stonehill was looking nervous.
“What’s the play, Bo? You meanin’ to cut in this hardcase or not?”
“What do you think? But just sit tight while I work out the play, all right?”
“Guess it has to be,” Stonehill grunted, and turned away. Rangle stared across the room at Monk and his men. They were watching like hawks. He deliberately kept his face sober as he turned back to the girl, but his voice was soft as he said: “I really hated to leave you in Tincup, Ruby. But I had to cache the gold and I had the bluecoats hard on my hammer ... You understand?”
“You really mean that, Bo?”
“Sure I do. If there’d been any other way, I’d have taken it. You’ve always rated tops with me, Ruby baby.”
Her eyes glinted up at him and Bo Rangle was again aware of the strange power he seemed to hold over a certain kind of woman. It was as if the wildness and cruelty in him acted as a magnet rather than a deterrent.
“You don’t hate me too much, do you, Ruby?”
“Of course I don’t,” she said quickly. Then her eyes clouded. “But what about Tara, Bo? Brady told me you took up with her two days after you left me in Tincup. He said she was waiting for you at Dannerville. He said you’d have left me whether I’d been sick or—”
“She came lookin’ for me, baby,” Rangle said. “Anyway, I’m rid of her, and the only important thing is where we stand now. I mean, you and me.”
She glanced apprehensively at the brooding Monk. “I ... I’m not sure I know what you mean, Bo.”
Rangle looked at Monk, too, and saw the man was getting restless. It was time to lay his cards on the table.
“I’m not cuttin’ Brady in, Ruby,” he said. “Not because I don’t reckon he’s got a cut comin’, but on account of he hates me. He’d kill me, Ruby, sooner or later, and I guess you know it. Don’t you?”
“Oh, Bo, I shouldn’t say any—”
“You know it,” he overrode her. “Admit it, Ruby. You’ve been livin’ with Brady. You know he’d try and kill me as soon as we got the gold, don’t you?”
She looked down at her glass, and finally she nodded. Rangle winked an eye. “I knew I could count on you, Ruby. And Brady’s got no chance. I always had his measure and I still have. Now, I don’t have much time, baby, so I’ll give it to you straight. I’m quittin’ here tonight with the boys I came here with. I’m headin’ out to get the gold and I ain’t takin’ Brady with me.” He stroked her arm, eyes hypnotic on her face. “You want to come with me or take your chances with Brady? And before you make up your mind, just think about two hundred grand. I’m plannin’ to head for Old Mexico with the dinero, Ruby. We could live high down there, just you and me and two hundred thousand in solid gold ...”
She smiled at him then, and it was the smile of the reckless, wild Ruby of old. “Just you and me, Bo.”
“That’s my girl,” he said triumphantly. “Now listen close, baby. I want you to do somethin’ for me, and you’re gonna need to do it right ...”
It was several minutes later when Ruby Ballard left the group at the bar to rejoin Monk at his table. The outlaw stared hard at her and saw that she was trembling.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” he demanded. “Did that bastard say somethin’ to you?”
She shook her head, then leaned against him, slipping her arm around his waist. “He didn’t say anything, Brady, but Bo frightens me more than ever.”
Brady Monk, in no mood for romance, pushed her away. He had no awareness of his six-gun leaving its holster, for Ruby Ballard had served her apprenticeship as a pickpocket in the teeming slums of New York City. The Colt disappeared into the folds of her skirt as she said plaintively:
“I’m frightened, Brady. Don’t you care if I’m frightened or not?”
Monk’s expression turned suspicious. “It takes a lot to frighten you, sweetheart. You sure Rangle’s not cookin’ somethin’ up over there?”
“No. They were talking about the money, and I think Stonehill is going to agree to your cut. But I—I’m afraid of going out into the badlands again with you and Bo, Brady ... hell, I guess what I need is a drink.”
“Mebbe you do at that,” Monk grunted, not much interested now. With Bo Rangle and a hundred thousand on his mind, Brady Monk had more to worry about than jumpy women.
Ruby rose, and, holding the Colt in her dress at her right side, moved around Buffalo and the others and started back across the room. Rangle, Stonehill, Checker, Clanton and Bishop watched from the bar. Then, as the girl was passing the last table, it happened. A drunk rose from his chair and bumped her. Ruby staggered off-balance for a moment and the sharp eyes of Brady Monk saw the glitter of light on the six-gun in her hand.
For a split-second, Monk’s brain refused to accept the significance of that gun. Then his hand brushed his empty holster and he knew. He was hurling himself low as four guns jerked from leather across the room, and Whisky Bob’s place shook to the thunder of gunfire.
Bo Rangle’s first shot was meant for Monk, but the screaming slug only found the back of the outlaw’s empty chair. The smoking cutter swung and belched and Scott Cassidy buckled before he could get his hand to his gun. Ruby Ballard rushed for the batwings and drinkers ducked wildly for cover. The killers were still hunting for Monk with their lead, but their line of fire was blocked by Jagger, Buffalo and Reagan who were desperately trying to come clear. Reagan drew and got one wild shot away before a slug from Rangle burned him down. The dead man fell across Monk who tore the smoking Colt from his fist. As Monk
rolled away, Joe Buffalo spun as if struck by a giant fist and crashed across the table which collapsed under his weight and fell across the back of Monk’s legs.
Monk kicked free of the weight, rolled onto his belly and triggered at the four figures blasting their way towards the batwings. He aimed for Rangle but caught Bob Checker in the shoulder. Checker reeled against the bar and Stacey Jagger’s Colt, joining into the mad chorus now, pinned Checker to the mahogany with lead.
A bullet plowed a furrow in the boards under Monk’s chin, spattering his face with splinters. Monk jerked up his gun and blasted out two of the saloon’s three lights.
With lead whistling in every direction and panic-stricken men leaping wildly for cover while others pitched and fell under the bite of bullets, an enraged Brady Monk slewed along the floorboards jerking trigger, trying to get a clear sight of Rangle through the gun smoke.
But Bo Rangle was too familiar with this deadly game. A big hand reefed at a table and rolled it in front of himself to form a barrier that Monk’s lead couldn’t penetrate. Then Rangle’s Colt was belching again and two slugs whipped past the rolling outlaw. Then Brady Monk lifted his Colt and blasted out the remaining light.
The moment the room was plunged into darkness, Monk jumped to his feet and hurled himself at Buffalo’s body. His hands scrabbled wildly for the dead man’s gun as the room continued to rock to the snarling crash of Colts and the screams of the frightened and wounded.
His hand closed over Buffalo’s gun as he heard Stacey Jagger give a hoarse cry of pain close by, followed by the thud of his body hitting the floor. Almost crazed with rage, Monk sent shot after shot at the gun flashes across the room.
Every primitive instinct of self-preservation warned Monk to flee the slaughter-house while he still had a chance. But the lust to kill kept him there, a weaving, darting shadow in the gloom, triggering furiously in the hope that one of his bullets would find Bo Rangle.
Then he was hit.
The bullet caught him in the left shoulder, spinning him around and hurling him to the floor. He lay dazed, listening to the swift drum of bootheels as running figures went through the batwings, then he pushed himself off the bloody floor. The wound wasn’t serious, but he’d lost his gun in the fall. He tripped over a body and fell heavily. Somewhere in the darkness, a man was blubbering like a baby. On his feet again, Monk traced his way by touch to the wall, then started towards the batwings. Horses moved around outside and he heard Bo Rangle’s shout.
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