Rebel Justice

by Robert Gosnell

CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Sins of the Father

  Outside, Wayland moved back down the alley, and took his former route behind the buildings, headed for the livery and his horse. His path took him behind the "Texas Crown," and he couldn't keep himself from looking up at Cassie's window. A light shone there. Wayland figured that Cassie was staying out of the way of the angry lynch mob, and was glad for it. He started to move off, but found himself rooted to the ground, below her window. He struggled inwardly against it, but finally began to climb up the back wall. Wayland climbed through the hall window. The voices of the drunken mob below were reaching fever-pitch, and he smiled to himself at how they'd feel if they knew where he was right now. He hurried to Cassie's door, and tapped lightly. It opened, and Cassie appeared. Here eyes were red from crying, and she gaped at him in shock.

  "Cassie.." he began, but she grabbed his arm and tugged him into the room, then shut the door. She threw her arms around him, and pressed her head to his chest. He held her there, for a long moment.

  "I thought I was rid of you," she sniffled, half jokingly.

  "I guess you just aren't that lucky," he teased.

  She raised her face to him and they kissed. When they parted, she abruptly pushed away and gave him a questioning look. "How did you get out of jail?" she asked.

  "Shorty. Too honest for his own good," he answered.

  "You're still going after Loomis?" she asked hesitantly.

  He nodded. "I am, Cassie. Then, I'm coming back for you."

  She shook her head firmly. "No, Wayland. You can't come back here."

  His heart sank. He couldn't give her up. He wouldn't! "Damn it, Cassie," he said firmly, "I said I'm coming back for you, and I mean it."

  Again, she shook her head negatively. "No, it's too dangerous."

  He started to speak again, to argue, but she interrupted him. "Kansas City," she said. "I'll meet you in Kansas City."

  Her words sank in after a second, and Wayland broke into a wide grin. She smiled with him. He grabbed her and kissed her hard. Wayland suddenly realized that the crowd below was shifting to the street. It brought his attention back to his more urgent concerns. Cassie saw the change in his expression and knew he would be leaving. She looked sad and fearful, and clutched eagerly to his hand.

  "Stay alive, Wayland," she whispered, and kissed him again. He turned from her, and went out the door.

  By the time he reached the ground below, the mob was headed up the street toward the Sheriff's Office. Wayland didn't bother to hide his movements, now. His enemies were headed the other way. Wayland jogged to the livery stable, and quickly ducked inside. He hurried to his horse, still saddled from his earlier escape attempt. He mounted up, and spurred her through the doors.They thundered out into the open, and Wayland turned the bay loose. Back down the street, he heard a shout of alarm.

  "He's gettin' away!" the voice yelled.

  Wayland glanced back over his shoulder to see the group of men flood from the Sheriff's Office, into the street. There was mayhem, as several of the men ran to the horses that were already saddled. A couple of men popped shots in his direction, but Wayland knew they'd never hit him. Not with pistols, at that distance, and in the dark. He leaned over the bay, and gave a loud "yahh!" into her ear, as he had done many times before. It seemed to tell her that the need was urgent, and she stretched herself to go faster.

  Wayland knew that the mounted vigilantes would be coming, but felt good about his chances. He had a healthy jump on them, and his horse was well rested. He intended to give them the chase of their lives. When they gave up on him, he'd double back. He rode, hell-bent, for several minutes, staying on the road to allow him more speed. He didn't even hear the shot that raked his skull, and drove him from his horse! Wayland hit the ground hard, stunned, the breath knocked out of him. He heard a "whoop" of joy from a group of rocks, some twenty yards away.

  "By damn, I got him," a man yelled.

  "And here, I thought we were gonna miss all the fun out here," another man shouted.

  Wayland fought to clear his head, then cursed to himself for not realizing that the roads would be guarded. Loomis was a former military man, with a knack for strategy. There was no time to waste, and he knew it. The mounted lynch mob would be riding up within seconds.He listened for the footsteps of his two assailants. When they came, they came at a trot. They weren't being very cautious, Wayland realized, and must be assuming that Wayland was dead. Without hesitating, Wayland dug out his gun, rolled to his belly and fired. One man, struck by Wayland's bullet, screamed and dropped to the ground, clutching his stomach. The healthy one got off a shot, but missed, and Wayland blasted two rounds into him.

  Wayland leapt to his feet, and charged for the bay. By the time he was mounted, the posse was within view of him.There were triumphant shouts and guns blazed as Wayland kicked the bay into action. He managed to stretch the distance between them, but not enough to shake them, he knew.Wayland studied the surrounding terrain. To his right, two or three miles away, was a stand of barren, rocky hills. His only chance would be to lose them there. He streamlined himself along the neck of the bay, and willed her to go faster.

  By the time they reached the hills, the bay was grunting for air, but showed not a twinge of slowing. He couldn't run her this hard for much longer. His eyes searched the darkness for an escape, and he located an opening in the rocks. He went for it. Wayland boldly chose twists and turns in the rocks, not knowing where they would lead. His luck ran out, when he found himself barreling full tilt into a small box canyon! The only way out was the way he had come in, and no doubt he'd run right into the mob if he went back.

  Wayland searched for an escape, and his eyes caught something out-of-kilter within the wall of rock. He moved closer, and discovered a boarded up, dilapidated mine shaft. Wayland dismounted, grabbed his saddlebags and rifle from the bay, then slapped her rump to send her back out the canyon. He made for the mine shaft, and struggled to tear the boards from the opening, just as he heard the posse ride into the canyon.

  "There he is!" someone shouted, and guns blazed.

  Wayland pushed through the boards, into the shaft, as bullets ricocheted all around him. He crouched in the opening and returned fire with the Winchester. One man went down, and the rest scattered, but kept firing at him. Wayland leaned back in the tunnel. No use wasting ammunition. He couldn't hit them, and they sure couldn't hit him. The problem was, they had him trapped. He knew they could wait him out. There was no telling where the maze of tunnels behind him would lead, and the chances of him finding his way out, especially without light, were not good. To risk it would be an act of pure foolishness...or sheer desperation.This was not a patient bunch, though, and their alcohol induced bravery was bound to evaporate as the heat of day set in. Wayland had a hunch they'd try something soon.

  After that, Wayland settled in, straining to listen for sounds of movement. He heard a murmuring of voices from his attackers, and figured they were talking it over. Before long, there was a pounding of hooves as one rider left the canyon. For reinforcements? Wayland wondered.

  The better part of two hours had passed, when Wayland once more heard the drumming of hooves. Again, it was only one rider. Maybe he'd just gone back for food, or whiskey. Before long, though, things took a dramatic turn. It came suddenly and with a vengeance as the silence of the night was shattered by gunfire. Every man in the bunch seemed to be unloading his gun at the mine entrance. Wayland pulled back from the opening to avoid catching a ricochet. After several moments, the shooting stopped, but Wayland heard a "thump" near the mine entrance. Someone was coming in!

  Wayland spun out, to confront the assailant, but there was no one there. What he saw, though, made his heart stop. Dynamite! Several sticks of it were tied together, and the short fuse was burning fast! Wayland charged back into the dark shaft. He ran several feet, then dived to the floor of the shaft and covered his head.

  The explosion was tremendous, and rocked the innards of t
he mountain. The ground beneath and around Wayland shuddered at the impact of the charge. Loose rock and dirt showered down over him, and support timbers groaned within the tunnel. It finally fell quiet, and Wayland felt the relief of surviving a near miss. His relief quickly turned to dismay, though, when he realized that the entrance to the tunnel was blocked by tons of rock and dirt. They had sealed him in a living tomb!

  Wayland sat down, and took stock of his situation. He had his saddlebags, and in those were a full canteen and some venison jerky, so he wouldn't starve or dehydrate any time soon. He also had flint, for a fire, though he doubted it would do him much good in here, except to smother him. He didn't relish the thought of venturing back into these mine shafts in darkness, but he saw no choice. With a hand to the wall to guide him, Wayland started walking.

  The shaft twisted and turned, and often he stumbled into loose support timbers, and piles of rock and debris in his path. He mentally kept track of the minutes that passed, and tried to get a sense of direction. The latter was nearly impossible. Wayland picked his way slowly along for hours, trying to quell the growing feeling of desperation within him. He realized that the shaft was slowly turning, and he was starting to move back the way he had come. He wondered if he wouldn't soon wind up back where he had started, at the closed entrance. Then, Wayland discovered an adjoining shaft that branched off to his left. Should he take it? He paused there, trying to find some reasoning that would help him choose. He stepped into the branch tunnel, just a few feet, then tried to sense what lay ahead. He neither heard nor felt any movement. He drew in a deep breath through his nose, to see if he could detect fresh air. He couldn't. Wayland decided to rest briefly, before making his choice. He was beginning to tire, and his thoughts were getting muddled. He squatted there, at the branch of the two tunnels, and dug the food and canteen from his saddlebags. His hand touched on the piece of flint, and it gave him pause.

  "Why not?" he thought to himself. "Just a little fire. Plenty of dry timber I can strip for wood. If the smoke gets too bad, I can put it out."

  He wanted to talk himself into the fire, because the mounting hours of pitch darkness were putting a strain on him, mentally. If he was to die soon, anyway, he wanted to see light before it happened. Wayland rose, and felt his way to a rotting support timber. With his knife, he skinned several strips of wood from it. He knelt to the ground and whittled a small pile of kindling, then went to work with his flint and steel. Even the sparks from the flint came as an uplifting sight to him. When the dried shavings began to catch, Wayland blew softly on them, until a tiny flame appeared. He moved more shavings onto the flame, and it grew steadily until he was able to place the larger pieces of wood on it. It was a piddling little fire, by most accounts, but it warmed Wayland's mood.

  He sat back and surveyed the tunnel in the dim light. It revealed nothing of any help to him. He relaxed, resting his back against the wall of the shaft, and ate two pieces of jerky. When he tilted the canteen to his lips, to wash down the dried meat, something caught his eye. Wayland realized that the smoke from his little fire was being pulled steadily into the adjoining shaft. There was an opening down there, somewhere, that was taking the smoke to the surface! Wayland jumped to his feet with renewed vigor. He headed into the new shaft, his pace quickened. He moved away from the little fire, and was quickly plunged into complete darkness again. He moved further into the shaft, and could still smell the lingering aroma of smoke that was being drawn through the tunnel. It gave him, in a small way, something of a trail to follow. He only hoped that the opening, if it was there, would be large enough to get through.

  Suddenly, Wayland felt a tiny, almost imperceptible change in the air. The stale dampness of the tunnel was permeated by cool, fresh air, coming from above him. Wayland built another small fire. It provided just enough light, and smoke from it rapidly ascended straight up. Above, Wayland could now see a narrow vent-shaft, and his heart raced when he realized that it was large enough, just barely, to accommodate him. Frantically, Wayland built up the fire, to give him more time. Then, he scavenged the tunnel for loose timbers and rock. It took nearly an hour for him to gather enough debris for him to stand on and gain a hand hold into the vent shaft. He threw his saddlebags over his shoulders, but was forced to leave the rifle. He'd never make the climb burdened by it. With that, he began a painful, torturous climb, splaying his arms and legs against the curved rock walls and pushing his way up. He couldn't see to the end of the vent shaft, but Wayland prayed he'd reach it before his arms and legs gave out, and plunged him to the rock floor below. One slip, and he'd be certain to die here.

  His shoulder wound caused him the most trouble. Mentally, he could overcome the pain, but the strain against his damaged, weakened muscles was intense. Slowly, though, he inched his way to the top. The shaft had been covered by loose boards, but they had mostly rotted away. Wayland was able to easily push through them, get a handhold on the lip of the opening, and with a powerful final lunge, thrust himself out on the open ground. He was free!

  Wayland lay there for awhile, gulping the clean, fresh air and revelling in his success. He vaguely realized that he was lying in a small dip, between two boulders. The air was crisp, and the night sky clear. He judged it to be just past midnight. As Wayland began recovering, he started laughing to himself at his good fortune. It was a laughter of sheer relief; a giddy explosion of pent up feelings. With a surge of strength-giving adrenalin pouring through him, Wayland rose to his feet, stretched his arms to the sky, and yelled at the top of his lungs.

  "I'm coming for you, John Loomis! I'm coming!" he screamed.

  And caught in the echo of his words, he thought he heard a shrill, chilling scream in reply!Wayland froze. Had he been too rash? Were they out there, still, waiting by the mine shaft? The sound came again, and Wayland recognized it as the high-pitched whinny of a horse, coming from the other side of the rocks. He pulled his gun and made a running climb up the hill. When he reached the top, he was met with a wonderful sight. There, back down in the box canyon, was his bay! Either the posse was too caught up in their business, and had left her, or she had waited to come back on her own. He moved quickly down into the canyon to retrieve her, and rode out.

  Wayland could smell the smoke of Irish Dan's campfire, well before he rode into the small arroyo. The fire was there, along with Dan's horse and saddle, but Dan was nowhere in sight. Wayland had expected it to be that way.

  "Irish Dan!" Wayland called out. "It's Wayland Brice!"

  "Near about give up on you," Dan replied from the darkness, then walked into the light of the fire.

  Wayland dismounted, and joined Dan by the fire.

  "Anything happen?" Dan asked.

  Wayland laughed to himself. Had anything happened?! To catch him up on all of it would take the rest of the night, so he decided to just give Dan the important part.

  "I killed Harley Stiles," he replied, simply.

  "That's good," Dan said.

  "No, it isn't," Wayland answered. "I didn't want him dead."

  Dan gave him a skeptical look.

  "Well, not much, anyway," Wayland corrected.

  "So, now it's Loomis?" Dan asked.

  "Now, it's Loomis," Wayland confirmed.

  "You look pretty done-in. Maybe you better get some sleep, first," Dan said.

  Wayland shook his head firmly. "I'll rest a bit, and have some coffee. Then, we're going. I'm not waiting any longer."

  Without reply, Dan rose and began to break camp. By the time Wayland had finished his coffee, Dan had his horse saddled. They mounted up, and rode toward the Loomis ranch. Two hours later found Wayland in the hills that surrounded the ranch. It took him awhile, in the dark, to locate the gully that Dan had told him about, but he found it. He dismounted, and climbed down into the gully. He was silently counting to himself as he snaked along on his belly. The timing between him and Dan would be important, and they had to get it done by sunup. By Wayland's estimation, that was less than two hours.


  Wayland moved steadily through the wash under the fence, and eventually found himself behind the large barn, just as Dan had said he would. He scooted to the back of the barn, and peered around it. There were guards there, caught in the dim glow of lanterns, but they seemed relaxed and at ease. And, Wayland noted, there weren't as many of them as there had been during his last visit. Wayland spotted four, but figured there were likely more of them asleep in the bunkhouse.

  Irish Dan timed his attack almost perfectly. Wayland had only been in position for seconds, when he heard the "boom" of Dan's rifle. He was firing from the hills, against the opposite side of the ranch, away from Wayland. Dan peppered the ranch with rifle fire, as the guards were suddenly snapped from the doldrums into frenetic activity. They shouted, ducked for cover, and searched for the gunman. Wayland watched as the bunkhouse doors burst open, and ahalf-dozen men, in various states of undress, poured from it. They were jabbering excitedly, pulling on boots and pants and guns, trying to answer the call. Wayland figured that Irish Dan was laughing his head off at their antics, from his position in the rocks. Finally, a couple of men returned fire. Dan gave them a few more rounds, just to make sure they had a direction to follow, then his gunfire fell silent. Wayland figured that he was mounting up, about now, to give himself a lead on those who would surely follow.

  And they did, just as Wayland figured. He wondered if they thought it was him or his ghost, firing down at them. Whatever their thinking, horses were quickly saddled and a group of the men stampeded off in Dan's direction. Wayland silently bid Dan farewell and thanks.

  Three men were left behind. They were gathered near the bunkhouse, talking excitedly. He couldn't make them out, but he could easily see their silhouettes. Now was the time to move, while he had them together. Wayland readied his colt, then darted through the darkness, circling behind them. As he crept closer, he could begin to make out their conversation.

  "...tell ya, it couldn't be him. We blowed him to kingdom-come with that dynamite!" One excited fellow was saying.

  "Did you see the body? I didn't," a voice replied, and Wayland recognized it as Brady's.

  They were still talking when he moved in on them, his gun aimed, the hammer back.

  "It was him, all right," Wayland said evenly. The three men spun, startled. He had them well-covered. "Just stand easy, boys," he told them. "Unbuckle those gunbelts, and get your hands up."

  The other two looked at Brady, who made no move to comply.

  "Don't look to him," Wayland snarled, "He'll just get you killed."

  The light from the surrounding lanterns was poor, but Wayland knew that Brady was staring in cold hatred at him. The other two men, to Wayland's relief, unbuckled their belts and let them drop to the ground.

  "Wouldn't hurt my sleep to drill you one, Brady," Wayland said. Evidently, Brady believed him, because he finally responded, and allowed his gunbelt to drop to the ground."Good enough," Wayland said. "Now, stand flat against the bunkhouse, there. Face to the wall."

  They moved to comply. When they were in position, Wayland stepped up behind one of them. Keeping an eye on the others, he tied the first man's wrists with a piece of rope he'd brought along for the occasion. That done, he moved to the second man. Wayland was tying his hands, as well, when he caught the sudden movement from Brady, just to his right. A steel blade flashed in his hand. Wayland had forgotten about the knife!

  Wayland jerked his head to one side, as the knife sailed by his ear. At that same instant, a snarling Brady was leaping at him. Wayland fired, but not before Brady slammed into him, grabbing for the gun! The shot missed, and the two men tumbled to the ground. Brady was a tough one, made stronger by a fight for his life. He kneed Wayland viciously in the ribs, and clawed at his face. The gun came loose and skidded away from them, across the ground.Brady increased the intensity of his attack, sensing victory.

  But Wayland fought back, just as determined. It was as if the anger and pain of fifteen years surfaced all at once, and Wayland directed it at Brady. He wrenched free one hand, and drove it viciously into Brady's chin. The blow weakened Brady for a split second, and Wayland took his opening. He hit Brady again, catching him along the ear, then drove his knees into the man's mid-section and heaved Brady's body off him.

  Brady scrambled to get up, but Wayland was up first, and launched a kick at Brady's head. He caught the man square in the jaw, lifting his entire body several inches from the ground. He flopped back down with a heavy "thud", and was still. Wayland retrieved his gun. The other two men, still with hands bound, had not budged. Probably, they had hoped Brady would win the tussle. Since he didn't, they saw no reason to risk their lives. Considering Wayland's current mood, it was a good choice. Wayland tied the unconscious Brady, hands and feet. Then, he tied all three men together, in a manner that would take them hours to squirm out of. By the time they did, he'd be long gone. Or dead.

  Finished, Wayland turned his attention to the house. There were no lights visible from the outside, but he knew that Loomis had to be in there. Wayland's heart surged, as he covered the yards to the house. With all that had happened, he had come to believe that it was fated to be this way. He had managed to stay alive, somehow, because his destiny was for this moment. He reached the house without incident, and cautiously tried the front door. It was unlocked.

  It was dark, but Wayland could make out the large, opulently furnished rooms inside. He crept silently through the house, and was about to go upstairs, when he detected light from under a door, down the hall. He silently moved to it. Wayland put his hand on the door bar and ever-so-gently lifted it. He detected no sound, as it moved smoothly in his grip. His Colt held ready, Wayland pressed his shoulder to the door, and gave a mighty shove.

  The man inside the office had his back to Wayland, peering timidly out the nearby window. His gun lay on the big oak desk, and there was no chance for him to get to it. He whirled at the noise of Wayland's entrance, and Wayland saw before him a young man in his mid-twenties. He was pale with fear, his eyes wide, as he stared down the barrel of Wayland's gun. He glanced hesitantly at his own weapon, on the desk. Wayland shook his head.

  "Never make it," he said, simply, and saw in the young man's eyes that he knew it was so.He was a handsome young fellow, with dark, curly hair and fine, almost delicate features. He licked his lips nervously.

  "Are you going to kill me?" he asked.

  "Depends," Wayland replied. "Where is he?"

  The young man's brow furrowed. "Who?" he asked.

  "John Loomis," Wayland spat back, impatiently.

  The man shook his head in puzzlement. "I'm John Loomis," he answered.

  Wayland reacted with shock, then skepticism. "Don't fool with me," he warned.

  "But...it's true. I'm John Loomis, Junior," he insisted.

  "The Colonel, damn you!" Wayland shouted. "Where is he?"

  John Loomis, Jr. gave him a dumbfounded look. "He's dead," he answered.

  It hit Wayland like a shot. He stood, speechless for several seconds, as he watched a look of revelation come over the young man's face.

  "You mean, that's what this was all about?" Loomis asked in astonishment. "My father? I thought it was me you were after. I couldn't..."

  "How?" Wayland interrupted.

  Loomis understood the meaning of Wayland's question, and turned grim.

  "He was on a stage coach. They were attacked by renegade Indians," he answered, then paused, and swallowed hard. "He...was alive, when they took him. The cavalry officer who found him said...it probably took him two days to die."

  "When?" Wayland asked.

  "Five years ago," came the reply.

  Wayland felt all emotion drain from his insides. He stood there, his gun aimed at the younger Loomis, but lost in the swirling confusion of his own thoughts. Five years! He had wasted five years hating a man who was already dead. A man who had died a more horrible death than even Wayland would have wished him!

  As a combination of rel
ief and confusion enveloped him, Wayland suddenly heard himself laughing. Just a chuckle, at first. Bitter, and empty. Then, a hearty, boisterous laugh.John Loomis, Jr. looked at him in dumbfounded amazement, not understanding. He was immensely relieved, though, when Wayland holstered his gun, turned, and walked out.

  He made his way back into the hills to his horse. As Wayland mounted up and spurred the bay for Kansas City, his laughter drifted out across the dark, empty Texas prairie.

  ########

  THE END

  About the author:

  Robert Gosnell has been a professional screenwriter for more than twenty-five years, with credits in television, studio films and independent films. He currently lives outside of Denver, Colorado, where he continues to write and teaches screenwriting classes.

  Visit my website at: