CHAPTER SEVEN
A New Score to Settle
Wayland judged his bearing by the stars. His grandfather had been a sailing man, in his youth, and this was among the many things Wayland had learned from him. He had walked two miles, he guessed, when he came upon a wagon road. It would make the walk easier, at least. He set a comfortable pace for himself, and fell into a rhythm. As he moved along the narrow trail, his mind was filled with the events of the past days. He had boldly blundered his way into the middle of a pretty dangerous situation, giving no thought to a plan. Now, it was time to come up with one. Otherwise, he'd never have a prayer of getting to Loomis. First, though, Wayland had to settle the score with Harley Stiles. Once Shorty learned the truth about Stiles, maybe he'd lean a bit more favorably in Wayland's direction.
Soon, Wayland found his thoughts turning to Cassie. It awakened a yearning in him that made his stomach churn. He had never met a woman who stirred him up so, and he cursed the timing of their meeting. He wanted her; wanted to take her away and spend his life with her. Almost as much as he wanted John Loomis dead. Almost.
Wayland was shaken from his internal thoughts by the drumming of hooves, coming up the road in his direction. He quickly moved from the road to a small patch of scrub-brush nearby, and hunkered behind it. Six riders, and the one in the lead appeared to be Harley. Wayland wasn't surprised that Harley would come back. He had revealed himself to Wayland, and was no doubt nervous about it. If not that, then Loomis had likely ordered him back, to determine Wayland's fate. They rode past, and Wayland came out of hiding. It would be light, soon, and Wayland picked up his pace, hoping to reach the cover of town before the mob returned. If they caught him in the open, on foot, and in daylight, he was as good as dead. He walked for another hour at this brisk pace. As he'd guessed, the horizon was beginning to show the first colors of sunrise and the darkness was melting away. Wayland began to feel uncomfortably vulnerable, and wished the buildings of Loomis would hurry into view. Wayland's heart skipped, when he heard another horse, coming up from behind him. Only one rider. Was it one of the posse, returning to town?
Wayland searched the barren terrain for a place to hide. He found a small depression in the sand. It wouldn't completely shield him from view, but the light wasn't good yet. Maybe the rider wouldn't spot him. Wayland flattened himself as the horse and rider drew near. He kept his face low to the ground, not daring to raise his head even to identify the horseman. He grew concerned, when the steps of the horse slowed, now very close to him. To a walk... then a standstill. He'd been spotted!
Wayland bolted upright, his gun in his hand, hoping there was not one already honed in on him. He found his target, and readied to fire...at the grinning figure of Irish Dan! Without flinching, Dan swept his hat from his head and gave a little bow. Wayland pulled down the gun, and relaxed.
"You're headed the wrong way, aren't you, Dan?" Wayland asked.
"Reckon that's so," he answered jovially. "Got to thinkin' about all them odds you're buckin'. You may be a damn fool, mister, but I'll vow you just might get the job done, with a little help."
"A little help?" Wayland queried.
"Let's set up camp someplace, have a cup of coffee and talk about it," Dan grinned. He offered his arm, and helped hoist Wayland to the back of the horse.
"You know, there's something I've been wondering," Wayland said, as they plodded along. "You sure don't look Irish. How come they call you Irish Dan?"
"I got this real fondness for Irish whiskey," he replied.
"When this is over, I'll buy you a bottle," Wayland offered.
Dan chuckled. "Let's just hope it don't all leak out from the bullet holes I'll have in me."
Wayland laughed, as Dan picked up the horses clip to a gentle trot, out across the prairie. Wayland and Irish Dan camped in a small arroyo. There, they talked for more than an hour. Dan provided good information concerning access into the Loomis ranch. There was a small gully, Dan said, that ran out from the the west of the ranch. It provided good cover, and passed within a few feet of the back of the barn. Dan also confirmed Wayland's suspicion that Loomis had posted extra guards for Wayland's benefit. Somehow, he'd have to get some of those gunmen away from the place. With this valuable information, Wayland began to devise a plan. It included Dan, but with as little risk to him as possible.
Later, they rode double to the edge of town, where Dan left Wayland to go in on foot. Dan returned to camp to await word from him. Wayland came into town behind the hotel. He edged his way along the back of the buildings to the "Texas Crown" saloon, then used some discarded barrels and boxes to aid his climb to the upstairs hall window. Wayland climbed through the hall window and slipped down to Cassie's room. He tapped on the door, but there was no answer. He tried the handle, found it unlocked, and went in.
Her room was as he imagined it would be. Wherever possible, she had covered the drab walls with paintings and curtains. It was bright and comfortable. Wayland sat on the bed to wait. Soon, he began getting drowsy, and decided to stretch out on the bed. Within seconds, he was asleep.
It was early evening when he woke up. He jerked upright suddenly, and found Cassie sitting in a chair, beside the bed. She regarded him with a mildly interested, but otherwise non-committal look.
"How long you been here?" he asked.
"About three hours," she replied, and reached to her dresser, where she picked up a plate of food from the restaurant. Lamb chops and fried potatoes, and the gentle aroma of it made Wayland's mouth water. She placed the food on the bed, beside him.
"It's cold, but I didn't know when you'd wake up," she said.
Famished, Wayland ate ravenously while she watched.
"When you turned up missing today, I figured they'd killed you," she said, finally.
Wayland nodded. "They tried," he answered, "But I got lucky."
"And still, you came back," she said flatly. There was an edge of weariness to her voice.
He nodded. "Hope you don't mind that I came here, Cassie. I had no place else."
She shrugged. "It doesn't matter much, really. You've been a dead man since you came to this town. I'm through fooling myself over it. When the time comes, I'll cry at your funeral. That's all I can offer."
He gave a somber nod. "I guess that's more than most," he said.
He finished his meal, got up, and moved to the wash basin. He splashed some water on his face, then gingerly loosened the bandana from his neck. He heard a sharp intake of breath from Cassie, as she saw the wound on his neck for the first time. She was instantly on her feet, and at his side. She soaked a clean cloth, and carefully began to wash the wound.
"My God," she whispered, "Who did this?"
"Harley Stiles," he replied. "He's working for Loomis."
Her eyebrows raised in surprise, but she said nothing. Once she finished cleaning the wound, she fashioned a crude bandage for it. Then, silently, she returned to her chair. Wayland turned to her. She looked away, avoiding eye contact.
"I'm not aiming to kill him," he said, and saw a slight reaction, relief he thought, slip across her face. She quickly masked it, and said nothing. He moved to her chair, leaned in and kissed her gently on the lips, then was out the door and gone.
Wayland stepped into the hall. Below, he could hear the rinky-tink sounds of the piano, and a mingling of voices. He moved to the top of the stairs, then down a couple of steps, until he could see into the saloon below. Harley wasn't there among the crowd of drinkers and card-players. Wayland moved back to the hall window. After climbing down the back of the saloon, Wayland worked his way to Main Street, keeping to the shadows, moving toward the sheriff's office. He hoped to find Harley out in the open, where he could get the drop on him.
"Let him answer to Shorty," he thought, "that's good enough for me."
He knew he would have to catch Harley off guard. The deputy had proved his proficiency with a gun, and his willingness to use it. Wayland posted himself in the shadows of an alley, across the stree
t from the Sheriff's Office, and waited. Nearly an hour went by. Finally, Shorty emerged from the office. He was headed for home, Wayland figured. That meant Harley would be making rounds soon. That would be Wayland's chance to take him by surprise. As Wayland watched Shorty stomp his way down the wooden sidewalk, he mentally apologized in advance to him. Wayland figured to be rousing him out of bed later on, and no doubt the Sheriff would be in a grouchy mood over it.
Wayland checked the load in his pistol, for the third time that day, and settled in to wait. Nearly two hours later, by his estimate, Harley came out of the Sheriff's Office and made his way up the street. Wayland tagged him from the opposite side of the street, slightly behind and in the darkness. The Deputy mechanically performed his routine duties, checking for unlocked doors along the street. At the end of the street, Harley arrived at the livery stable. When he went in, Wayland seized his chance. He darted across the street, and flattened himself against the wall, next to the large double doors of the stable. He cautiously pushed one of the big doors, just enough to provide a crack between them that would allow him to look in. The hinges on the stable door gave just the faintest creaking noise as it opened.
Wayland peered in. Though he could only see a small area inside the stable, Harley was within his view. He was sitting on a wooden box, his hat cocked back on his head, taking a pull from a pint bottle of whiskey.
Harley had the bottle to his lips, when Wayland burst through the doors, gun in hand! The startled deputy sputtered whiskey all over his shirt, as he bolted to his feet!
"I'll kill you if you move, Deputy!" Wayland shouted. It was then he realized that there was another man in the room! He had been out of Wayland's sight, but was sitting across from Harley. As soon as Wayland saw him, out the corner of his eye, he knew the man was going for his gun. Wayland had no choice but to shift his aim to the man.
Wayland fired, and the gunman jerked backward from a bullet in the chest. As he slumped to the ground, Wayland instinctively knew that Harley was drawing, without even seeing him. Knowing he couldn't get a shot off ahead of the deputy, Wayland chose another tact. He dived for cover!
A shot roared, just as Wayland rolled behind partition of an empty stall. Three more shots ripped through the wood above Wayland's head. Wayland stabbed his gun around the corner and banged two shots blindly in Harley's general direction. He wasn't about to poke his head out and get it shot off. The sound of his bullets slapping into the back wall of the building told Wayland that he hadn't hit anything of importance. The horses whinnied and shuffled nervously within the restraints of their stalls. Wayland figured the shots would draw attention from the people in town. Maybe they'd pass it off, at first, to a couple of rambunctious, drunk cowboys. Eventually, though, someone would show up.
Wayland reloaded the spent rounds from his gun, then peered slowly up over the partition. Within a second, three shots boomed, and bullets ripped so close to his head that the splinters stung his face. Wayland ducked back down. He had gotten just enough of a look to pinpoint Harley's location. He was in a back corner of the stable, behind a pile of feed sacks. Wayland heard him chuckle.
"Hey, Reb, what say we holster these guns and face each other like real men?" he called, in a taunting voice.
Wayland knew that Harley was a seasoned gunfighter, and wasn't about to risk it. His mind worked quickly to formulate a better idea. The double doors of the stable were nearly obliterated from Harley's viewpoint. He would be able to hear the doors open, and close, but not see them. Wayland slipped along the floor to the double doors, and gave one a mighty shove. He scurried back to his hiding place before the door slammed shut. It was more than loud enough, he knew, for Harley to have heard it.
"Hey, Reb?" Harley called out.
Wayland remained motionless, holding even his breathing in check. There were several seconds of silence, and Wayland could feel Harley's indecision. Finally, he heard a mumbled curse from Harley's position.
"Yellow-bellied coward!" he swore, and Wayland heard his footsteps fast approaching, heading for the doors. Harley ran by so fast, he didn't even see Wayland, hunkered in the stall. As Harley reached the doors, Wayland stepped out behind him.
"Harley!" he shouted.
Harley spun and lifted his revolver to shoot, but Wayland already had him in his sights, and blasted a shot that slammed into Harley's forehead, snapping it back like a rag doll. That was the trouble with gunslingers, Wayland later decided. They were so good, they thought they could overcome any odds. It was Harley's arrogance, among other things, that got him killed. Wayland didn't bother to check for signs of life. The location of the wound dictated instant death. He honestly hadn't intended to kill Harley, but found regret hard to come by in his heart of hearts. It would have serious consequences, though, and Wayland knew it. He had no case to present to Shorty, regarding Harley's connection to Loomis. Wayland figured that his only option was to cut and run, until another plan could be decided.
Wayland moved quickly to his bay, well rested and berthed in one of the stalls. He saddled her in smooth, liquid motions borne from repetition. Within seconds, he was mounted and riding her straight for the double doors of the livery. He shoved the doors open from atop her and swung her head through the doors and outside. He was readying himself to turn the bay loose in a dead run, when his path was blocked by Shorty, who held a shotgun on him. In his eyes, Wayland saw his serious intent, and reined the bay in. He took a deep breath, and gave out a little laugh.
"Thought you'd gone to bed, Shorty," he said, simply.
"Went home for supper. Came back ten minutes ago," he replied, and kept the shotgun trained on Wayland.
"Should've had seconds," Wayland said, in a wry tone. Wayland carefully lifted his gun from the holster with his thumb and forefinger, and dropped it on the ground. He dismounted, and raised his hands in compliance.
"I can explain, Shorty," he said.
"You'll have time," Shorty answered back. He motioned with the shotgun for Wayland to move on down the street. As they did, Wayland noticed for the first time, that the handful of residents who were still awake were all out on the street, watching in silence. The eyes followed them down the middle of the street. Framed in the light of the doorway, at the "Texas Crown", Wayland could see Cassie, also watching. He didn't look at her face, but kept his eyes straight ahead as he walked. He already knew what her expression would say.
The cell door slammed with a harsh "clang" behind Wayland as Shorty locked him up. Shorty stood there, the keys in his hand, and studied Wayland.
"I gotta hand you one thing," he said solemnly, "I figured it'd be Harley walking out of that stable, and you layin' dead."
"Harley was working for John Loomis, Shorty," Wayland anxiously explained. "He tried to kill me, out on the desert last night."
Shorty gave a derisive snort. "Boy, every drunk and horse thief I ever locked up lied he was innocent."
"I'm telling you the truth," Wayland urged. "Look at me, Shorty!"
With that, Wayland yanked the bandana down, revealing the brand on his neck. Shorty grimaced a bit at the sight of the wound. He appeared to weaken to Wayland's argument, briefly, but caught himself.
"Well, somebody did a Godawful thing to you, sure enough," he conceded, "But I got no proof it was Harley. Just your say-so."
Wayland flushed in anger. "Are you scared of Loomis? Is that it, Shorty?"
As soon as he said it, Wayland regretted it. The sheriff glowered at Wayland. "You shut your damn mouth, mister! The only one responsible for the spot you're in is you. You started this commotion the day you pointed your pony towards Texas. Don't anybody here owe you anything. Least of all, me!"
With that, Shorty spun on his heel and stomped out the door.
Wayland felt frustrated, as he fell back on the bunk. He futily searched his mind for a way out. He could think of none. He regretted his failure to bring down Loomis. He had come so close. Oddly, though, he was finding that the raging fire of hatred aga
inst Loomis that had tormented him all these years was beginning to lose its intensity. He was giving more thought to staying alive...and to Cassie. Wayland inwardly cursed himself for the fool he was. He'd had his chance with her, and had discarded it. Now, he would have to live with that, along with his failure to render justice on Colonel John Loomis.
He was pulled from deep thought by the sound of voices, coming from outside. Wayland rose to the window and peered out. His cell was in back of the building, but the tiny window was in a side wall, and he was able to see part of the street in front of the Sheriff's office.
He saw a mob of men, coming up the sidewalk. Some of them, he recognized as town citizens. There was a sprinkle of cowboys and farmers among them, but the core of the group, which led the procession, appeared to be guns-for-hire. Loomis men. The man at the front was a dark-haired, rangy fellow with a craggy, hard-lookingface.
The voices grew louder as they approached, and Wayland could detect the slur and bravado of whiskey talking in many of them. They passed out of his sight, as they gathered at the front of the Sheriff's office, but Wayland could still hear them well.
"Sheriff!" A man called, and Wayland recognized the voice of the knife-man. This must be the craggy-faced leader. Wayland heard Shorty break down the shotgun and load it, then the front door opened and closed as Shorty went out.
"Been expecting you fellas," Shorty said calmly. "This your idea, Brady?"
Wayland grunted in grim satisfaction that he finally had the knife-man's name. They had met twice in conflict, and Wayland was glad to have him identified, for future reference.
"He killed Harley," Brady shouted, and the mob rumbled words of angry agreement.
"Well, yes, it appears he did," Shorty confirmed in a reasonable tone. "But, we still don't have all the facts as to why. That's how come we have Judges and lawyers and the like. Now, be sensible, men. Hell, if he's guilty, he'll hang, right enough. No sense you breakin' the law, just to hang him a little sooner."
A few in the crowd began to bend to Shorty's reasoning, cooling down some. Brady responded without hesitation.
"You're just trying to protect him, Shorty. You've been doing it all along!" Brady growled, and got the strong response from the mob that he wanted.
Wayland knew that Brady and the other Loomis men in the crowd were instigating this. No doubt, they'd been over in the saloon, buying drinks and riling up the citizens.
"We got no truck with you, Sheriff, but that murderin' Reb is gonna hang tonight" Brady threatened, "whether you turn him over easy or not. You think on it. We'll be back!"
The crowd rallied to him, as the angry shouts and drunken threats re-surfaced. They did move away, but without an attitude of retreat. And they didn't disperse, they went together. These were bad signs, as Wayland saw it. He heard Shorty enter the front office, and heard his heavy footsteps as he came back to the cell. The shotgun was still slung over one arm, and Shorty's mood was grim.
"They'll do it, Shorty," Wayland insisted, "Some of them are Loomis men. He's putting them up to it."
"Aw, you and Loomis both be damned!" Shorty snapped angrily.
"No sense you dying over this," Wayland pressed.
Shorty shot an angry glare at him. "What I should do is put a bullet between your no-account eyes, and save everybody a lot of trouble. Now, you shut up while I'm thinkin'."
He began to pace in front of the cell, deep in thought, stroking the back of his neck with one hand. Wayland stifled his impatience. He had to let Shorty make the first move. Finally, Shorty turned to him, with a steady look.
"If I let you go, swear you'll forget about Loomis and get out of Texas," he demanded.
Wayland remained silent. He wouldn't make that promise.
Shorty gave a flustered, irritated snarl. "Aww, to hell with it! Maybe I'll get lucky, and you and Loomis'll kill each other!"
Shorty quickly unlocked the cell door. Wayland couldn't get out fast enough. He followed Shorty into the front office, where Shorty handed him his gunbelt and gun. He strapped it on, then reached out his hand to shake. Shorty just glared back at him, and made no move to respond.
"If I ever see your face in my town again, I'll shoot you on sight," he warned.
Wayland smiled wryly. "Been a pleasure knowing you, too, Shorty."
Shorty scowled, then poked out his jaw and pointed at it. "Now," he said, "hit me. Make it a good one. I want this to look like an escape. That way, if they catch you, I'm off the hook."
Wayland looked amused. "I'm touched by your loyalty, Shorty."
"Like you said," he grumbled, "No sense in me dyin', too."
He closed his eyes. Wayland drew back, and threw a solid fist to Shorty's jaw. His head snapped to one side, and Wayland caught him as he fell, and laid him gently on the floor. He checked, to make certain he hadn't done any serious damage. It looked like a clean knockout. With that, Wayland tipped his hat to the unconscious Sheriff and slipped out the side door, into the alley.
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Rebel Justice Page 6