REBEL JUSTICE
by
Robert Gosnell
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PUBLISHED BY:
Rebel Justice
Copyright © 1993 by Robert Gosnell
All rights reserved. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously.
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CHAPTER ONE
Welcome to Loomis
It was the "yipping" of the coyotes that brought him fully awake. Until then, he thought he knew where he was. He was, his addled, half-conscious dream had told him, lying on the battlefield at Antietam. There was the familiar, searing pain of a bullet wound in his shoulder; the same leaden certainty of death in his heaving chest.
"If only the field medics find me, before I bleed to death," he thought. But there were so many others, blue and gray, lying on that field with him. He could hear them, screaming their anguish and pain into the cold, hollow night.
But, it wasn't the cries of dying men, he now realized. It was the "yipping" of coyotes. And, it wasn't the grassy battlefield at Antietam he felt beneath his back. It was the sandy, dried earth of a Texas prairie. The sickening stench of death; the throbbing in his head from the pounding roar of field artillery, these had crept in from his memory. The bullet wound, though, was real enough.
Wayland Brice gritted his teeth and forced himself to concentrate through the pain. He had to put it all together, and he had to do it fast. He was riding...where? When the memory came back to him, it caused a surge of a adrenalin to rush through him. Loomis, Texas! For the first time in fifteen years, he was headed somewhere with a purpose, instead of drifting aimlessly.
"Loomis", the puncher in the saloon had said. "Little town in south Texas. Named after some yankee cavalry officer."
He had lost six months wages there, he went on to say, but Wayland wasn't listening to that. His mind just kept repeating that name..."Loomis". It wrenched Wayland's gut in a mixture of hope and hatred. All those years spent searching. So many towns, so many people. Wayland had all but given up. And now, across a poker table in an Oklahoma saloon, some drunk cow puncher had laid Colonel John Loomis right in Wayland's lap.
Wayland had ridden hard for four exhausting days. He ate and slept in the saddle. When his bay needed rest, Wayland walked her. She had proved her heart and stamina many times in the past, and he was able to judge her limitations against his own. So, they pushed on. And, he was almost there. Just a few miles from his destination. What happened?
The sun had just disappeared below the horizon, he recalled, and the sweltering desert was alive with silhouettes. Rocks, cactus...anything that protruded above ground, stood out as a dark mass against the pastoral glow of the dying sun. The desert would cool, some, and it was best to stay in the saddle and take advantage of the remaining rays of light. The slow, hypnotic plodding of the bay allowed Wayland to sway in sync on her back, while he dozed intermittently.
Then, with a frightening suddeness, a rider on a powerful, steel-black horse had thundered down on him from out of nowhere. Wayland's own bay had skittered, and nearly thrown him. All those hours in the saddle must have really muddled his senses, he reasoned, not to have heard that monster horse pounding the dry earth ahead of him.
As abruptly as the rider had appeared, he was gone, the black stallion's hooves drumming a strong, steady rhythm that quickly faded. No worse for wear, but wide awake, Wayland had
paused but briefly to ponder the urgency of the rider's mission. Bent low over the neck of the heavily lathered stallion, he had never acknowledged his near accident with Wayland, or even Wayland's presence. No pause, no nod, no tip of the hat. Downright un-neighborly.
Wayland wondered to himself if the stranger had even noticed the Colt in Wayland's hand as he stampeded past. A more hair-triggered type might have shot on instinct, having been startled so. But Wayland Brice was not the hair triggered type. In fact, he hated to clear leather, even choosing, more often than not, to give wide berth to a rattler, instead of shooting it. When he had to shoot, though, he was highly likely to hit his target. He was no gunfighter, but he was better than the average cowhand.
The odd encounter behind him, Wayland had ridden on, to the crest of a small, sandy hill. It never occurred to him what a nice, inviting target he must have made, silhouetted as he was against the blood-red horizon. Of course, it never occurred to him that someone was out to kill him, until the bullet slammed into his shoulder, and drove him from his horse.
And what now? How long had he been out? It was pitch black. The sun was gone, and the night was moonless. It could have been a few minutes, or a few hours. Wayland reached his right hand to the wound in his left shoulder. His shirt was soggy with blood. He felt the ground beneath the wound, digging his hand into the sand. He was bleeding freely, but hadn't lost a critical amount of it yet. Only minutes, he figured. He probably wouldn't have lasted hours. He only hoped he'd be able to move, without blacking out. He was still alive, though, and that would obviously be a disappointment to someone. Wayland figured to do his best to disappoint him even more, whoever he was.
Could it be the rider on the black stallion? Wayland didn't think so. The bullet had come from the front. Too soon for the stranger to have circled back and drawn a bead on him.
Then who? And why? For such a big, wide-open state, this little patch of Texas was getting pretty damned crowded.
Wayland took several deep, shaky breaths, then used his good right arm to push himself to a sitting position. A wave of numbing pain shot through his wounded shoulder, and his head throbbed. As his body trembled in weakness, Wayland steadied himself, gulping air and fighting back the nausea. He clumsily snagged his bandana from his neck and bound it tightly around the wound, and was suddenly gripped by a sense of panic.
"Even if I find the bay and make it to a doctor," he thought, "I could still lose the arm."
Visions of gangrene infested arms and legs, unceremoniously hacked off by sweaty, stone-faced army surgeons flashed in Wayland's mind. He shuddered and shook it off. No, by God. Not him. Not ever. Better to die, first.
That possibility reared it's ugly head at just that moment, as Wayland heard the soft crunching of boot leather against sand. Two men approaching. Slow, and cautious. Whoever put the hot lead in him apparently wasn't finished. Wayland quickly laid back down, his back turned to the approaching footsteps. He eased his Colt from it's holster and held it against his stomach to muffle the "click" of the hammer as he thumbed it back. Maybe he could get both of them. For damn sure, he'd get one. He wasn't about to be the only poor bastard to die out here this night.
The footsteps drew closer, and Wayland stifled his breathing. Perfectly still and noiseless. Dead, by all accounts. At least, he hoped his attackers would see it that way, and not put another slug in him for insurance.
"Mister...?" a husky, hesitant voice uttered, "You hear me?"
Wayland forced himself to remain motionless. It was pretty dark, and he wanted to make sure of his target. Just a bit closer. The shooters accommodated, and Wayland heard the footsteps ease forward. He could hear their labored breathing. Almost...almost close enough.
"Mister?", the husky voice snapped again.
Wayland wrenched his body around with a mighty heave, searching for a target. As he laid the sights of his Colt dead center on the dark figure of a man, there was a startled "yelp", and four hands shot up in instant surrender.
"Don't shoot!" the second man cried, "We're the law!"
Wayland kept the Colt leveled on his target, but paused, just long enough to make out the dull glint of a badge on the man's shirt. The hands of the men were still in the air, and they stood rock steady. Like a dog who shows his belly, they were his for the
taking. He wasn't the hair-triggered type, it's true, but the temptation to shoot was almost unbearable.
"Look! Here! Can't you see the badge?" the second man pointed to his chest.
"A man puts a bullet in me, it don't much matter if he's wearin' the crown jewels of by-God England!" Wayland snarled.
"It was a mistake! Honest-to-God," the first man pleaded.
Even in the dark, Wayland could see the fervent nod of the second man's head. His eyes were adjusting to the darkness, and he strained to focus on the two men. Number one was small and stocky, probably the older of the two, from the sound of his voice. The second man was tall, muscular and probably in his twenties. Wayland couldn't make out their features, but he could sense the fear emanating from them. He relished it.
"It wasn't you we were after," number one explained.
"It was me you shot," Wayland grunted.
"Now look-a-here, you gotta let us help you, or you're gonna bleed to death," number two announced sternly. "Killin' us only kills you."
It was a logic that Wayland couldn't argue. Still, he kept the Colt centered on the bigger man's chest. "If it wasn't me, then who?"
"Horse thief," said the small, squattish one. "Ridin' a coal black stallion. Maybe you seen him. You were dead on his trail."
Wayland grunted. It made sense. It didn't, however, make the pain of his wound go away. His shoulder was pumping blood from beneath the flimsy bandana, and Wayland's vision was beginning to blur as he weakened.
"One of you itchy-fingered bucks tore up my shoulder pretty bad. Now, you just want to say "oops," and let it go by, that it?"
There was a long pause, then the short man drew a sharp, impatient breath. "Well, dammit, are you gonna kill us, or not?"
Wayland was glad it was dark enough to mask the flickering smile of amusement that crossed his face. "Maybe later," Wayland announced, and promptly sagged into unconsciousness.
Wayland drifted in-and-out on the ride back. The pain from his bullet wound and his loss of blood drove him into a merciful state of unconsciousness most of the way. Through the haze of delirium, he had only one rational thought: He had to stay alive long enough to look into the eyes of the man he intended to kill. Colonel John Loomis. After that, it didn't much matter.
When Wayland regained consciousness, he found himself lying on a hard cot. The room had damp feel, and a musky odor. He quickly took stock of his condition. His body was stiff and sore, his mouth was dry, and his shoulder hurt like hell fire. On top of that, he realized, he was in jail!
That startling revelation got his attention, and he tried to sit up. His aching body rebelled, and he groaned loudly at the flash of pain that gripped him. In an instant, he discovered a short, stocky bearded man hovering over him. There was a badge on the man's denim shirt.
"Here, now...don't try to get up. It's too soon," the man urged, and helped Wayland lie back down. Wayland looked up at the craggy, tanned face of a man in his late-forties. Old, for the times, and looked even older, except for the clear, sharp brown eyes.
"Water," Wayland croaked.
"Harley, bring some water here," the man shot over his shoulder.
The large-framed, younger lawman appeared, holding a dipper of clear, cold well water. This was the one Wayland almost killed, out on the desert. He was a rock-jawed, handsome fellow with dark, curly hair, and Wayland decided that a lot of pretty, heartbroken young women would have shown up for the funeral. The older man put the dipper to Wayland's lips. Wayland gratefully gulped it down, then flopped back weakly on the cot.
"You the one that shot me?" Wayland asked.
"No, that was Harley," the older one replied, nodding toward the younger lawman. Rather than remorse for his deed, Harley actually appeared somewhat pleased with himself.
"I'm Elmo Duncan. Most folks just call me Shorty. Town Sheriff."
"Which town?" Wayland asked.
"Loomis", came the reply, and Wayland's chapped lips stretched into a thin smile. He made it!
"This here's my deputy, Harley Stiles," Shorty added. The younger man gave a stone faced nod.
"How long?" Wayland asked.
"Two days," Shorty responded. "More'n once, we thought we lost you."
"My horse?" Wayland queried.
"Over at the livery. I'm holdin' your saddlebags and personals in a safe place. You had sixteen dollars and forty-two cents."
"What the hell am I doing in jail?" asked Wayland.
Shorty smiled sheepishly. "Didn't have no other bed to put you in. Hope you don't mind."
Wayland gave a little grunt. "Just don't shut the door."
Shorty grinned at this one. He seemed relieved. "We made a hell of a mistake, mister, and I surely do apologize. We thought you was Irish Dan, for certain."
"You must have wanted him pretty bad," Wayland added.
Deputy Stiles gave a hint of a wry smile. "You don't steal from John Loomis and live long to talk about it. Especially not a prize like that horse."
"We didn't get him," the Sheriff added, "but you can bet your buttons Loomis will. He'll pay some bounty hunter to chase old Irish Dan to the ends of the earth. When it's done, Dan'll be dead, and Loomis will have his horse back."
"Guess he's pretty powerful in this town," Wayland mused.
"Mister," the deputy replied, "John Loomis is this town."
"Then, he should be easy to find," Wayland said, unable to hide the edge of urgency in his voice. Shorty's brow jerked up, and he looked like Wayland had just slapped him. Deputy Stiles remained deadpan.
"Loomis? What the hell you want with Loomis?" Shorty asked.
Wayland noted the strong reaction, and tried to make his tone sound more casual.
"Just a job", he answered.
"Punchin' cows?" Shorty asked. Wayland nodded, and Shorty frowned suspiciously. "Well, I don't guess he needs any cowpunchers," came the terse reply. "See, he don't have any cows. Loomis raises horses."
Wayland cursed his loose lips. He had four days on the trail to think up a good story. He should have done it. Shorty didn't seem nearly as amiable as he did a few moments ago.
"First off, John Loomis wouldn't hire, fire nor spit on a Reb, and you're a Reb, for sure," Shorty said. "That twang in your talk ain't Texas. More like Alabama, I'd say."
"Georgia", Wayland corrected.
"Second," Shorty continued, "you may be a cow puncher, from time-to-time, but you ain't done so in awhile. Got no rope calluses on your hands. And third, you rode long and hard to get here. Got what looks like red Oklahoma dust in the cuffs of your pants, and that poor ol' horse of yours was wore near to death."
"She can take it," Wayland answered shortly.
"You see, Mr..." he hesitated. "What the hell is your name, anyway?"
"Wayland Brice."
"Well, Mr. Brice, there's two things you should know," Shorty expounded, "One, I'm a whole lot smarter than I look, and two, trouble with John Loomis is trouble you can't handle.
"Wayland feigned innocent surprise. "Who said anything about trouble?"
"I can smell trouble," Shorty growled, "and you stink of it. Now, I'm an honest law man, and I'm not takin' sides, but if you push too hard, I may not be able to help you. Remember, the name of the town is Loomis, not Shorty.
Shorty straightened, and he and Deputy Stiles walked from the cell. Shorty turned, and gave a nod toward the cell door. "You want that to stay open, you heed my words."
With that, they were gone. Wayland took a long, slow breath. He'd already tipped his hand, and sensed that he'd have to be more than a little careful. That decided, he promptly fell asleep. It was sometime late in the night, when Wayland was awakened by the feel of cold steel pressed against his neck. His eyes opened, but there was only darkness. There was no doubt, though, that someone was holding a knife to his throat. He started to move his hand, and felt it restrained by an iron grip. Then, a low, guttural voice whispered from the darkness.
"Don't you make a move, boy."
Wayland's body tensed, but he held himself motionless. A match flared behind him, and was set to a lantern that bathed the room in a reddish glow. Whoever was in the cell with him was behind him, out of his line of vision.
"Recognize him?" the guttural voice asked.
There was a soft, whispered "No," from another man, and the lantern was quickly extinguished. At that instant, the blade of the knife relaxed slightly against Wayland's throat.
With a surge of gathered strength, Wayland wrenched his arm free and grabbed the knife arm, twisting it back. The knife man was startled and caught off guard as Wayland struck out blindly with his wounded left arm. His fist made contact with the knife man's jaw, and brought a gasp of pain and surprise from him. Then, something crashed hard into Wayland's skull, and he blacked out.
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