Finally, after keeping silent for as long as she could stand, Libby whispered, “What do you think that shot meant, Brock?”
“How in blazes am I supposed to know?” he responded through clenched teeth. “It wasn’t aimed at us, I can tell that much. And I reckon you got to count that as a good thing. Beyond that, I don’t know what to think.”
“Maybe fate brought somebody else here,” Sanders said sarcastically.
“You shut up,” Brock said.
Sanders thrust his chin out defiantly. “What if I don’t? What if I start hollerin’ my head off and draw attention to us hunkered down in here? Maybe that shot was a law dog nosin’ around on account of what happened back in Rattlesnake Wells. Or somebody from a nearby ranch out huntin’. No matter who it is, what have I got to lose? My situation can’t get no worse than what it is now with—”
Brock spun around suddenly and slammed the butt of the rifle he was holding in a savage blow to the side of Sanders’s jaw, silencing him and sending him to the ground, knocked out cold. The former federal marshal took a step and hovered over the fallen man, holding the rifle ready for another blow in case he tried to get up or had more to say. Sanders was capable of neither.
Libby, who had backed away as far as she could from the sudden and unexpected attack, pressed herself tight against the rock shoulder and looked on with widened eyes.
Brock turned his head to look at her. “He kept askin’ for it. He kept eggin’ me on. I held off hurtin’ him before this because I wanted to wait until the time and place was right. Even though I want him to suffer long and slow, the way my Adelia did, I’ll kill him suddenlike if I have to, rather than risk letting him get away from me. And whoever’s out there, whoever fired that shot . . . I’ll kill them, too, if I have to. I don’t want to, but I will. I won’t let anybody get in the way of me deliverin’ to Arlo what he’s got coming. You understand, don’t you, Libby?”
She nodded somewhat jerkily. “Yes. Yes, I do.” She would have been afraid to answer differently, no matter what . . . but, actually, she felt she had come to understand Brock. The depth of his pain, the fierceness of his hatred for Arlo. That didn’t change the fact that the man was quite savagely mad, but at least she understood why and what was driving him.
Brock took a step closer to her. “You’ve proven yourself every hard step of the way through this, Libby. I’ve come to believe I can count on you.”
“You can,” Libby assured him. “I’m in this just as deep as you, and I want Arlo dead almost as bad as you. I’ll admit that I . . . I’m not completely at ease with the slow death you have in mind for him . . . but I figure I can look away or walk away from that part if I have to. The way he dumped me in the past was every bit as cruel and torturous in its own way. And what he did to your wife . . . yeah, I think we understand each other pretty damn well, Brock.”
His eyes bored into her hard and deep. For a minute, neither of them said anything.
Then Brock spoke. “So now I’ll make an admission to you. Up until just about this very minute, I was figuring I couldn’t afford to leave you behind as a witness.”
Libby met his gaze. “I had a hunch that might be coming. Once I knew I’d gotten even with Arlo, I guess I didn’t care all that much. I just hoped you’d make it quick.”
“You should have cared, Libby, quick or not. Damn it, you’ve still got things to live for.” He shook his head. “In spite of every instinct telling me I ought to go through with how I originally planned it, I ain’t gonna. I can’t. I won’t. Not after all you’ve done to help me get this far.”
“Won’t say I’m disappointed,” Libby replied with a crooked grin.
“And now I’ve got to count on you even more.”
“How so?”
“That shot . . . I’ve got to go see what’s behind it,” Brock told her. “Don’t exactly know why, but I got a feelin’ in my gut it ain’t anything good. I want you to stay here out of sight. Keep hunkered down low and keep an eye on Arlo.”
“If you’ve got a bad feeling, why don’t we just ride away?”
Brock shook his head. “You know why.” He turned back to Sanders, bent over and dragged the unconscious man closer to the base of a thick bush growing up the side of the rock shoulder. He momentarily unlocked the handcuffs on Sanders’s wrists, ran the chain around behind the thick, gnarled root extending up through a crack in the rock, then clamped the cuffs back on.
Straightening up, puffing a little, Brock said, “There, that oughta hold him. That tough ol’ root grew up through that rock and split it open. I don’t expect Arlo will be yanking it free very easy. If he wakes up and tries, you chunk him on the head again with something or otherwise figure out a way to discourage him.”
“I can do that,” Libby said.
Brock reached into the saddlebag on his horse, pulled out a well-worn Colt .44 revolver, and held it out to Libby. “This is my trusty old spare. Take it. If I don’t make it back, promise me you’ll use it on Arlo. He dies here one way or another. Okay?”
Libby reluctantly took the Colt. “Why wouldn’t you be coming back? I mean, you will—won’t you?”
“I plan on it, but like I said, I got a bad feeling about that shot. Don’t know what I’m gonna run into. You never can tell. Something could go wrong. That’s all I’m saying.”
“How will I know?”
“If things go bad enough wrong, I expect you’ll hear more shooting. Comes to that and I ain’t made it back after two or three hours, likely I ain’t gonna. That’s when I want you to take care of Arlo for me. For all of us—me, my Adelia, and for yourself. Then you get out of here and take care of yourself.”
Libby’s brow wrinkled. “How will I do that?” “Skirt around this rock pile and head due south,” Brock told her. “You know how to figure that, right? Keep the sun on either your left or right shoulder. Eventually, you’ll come to the railroad tracks. Turn left and follow them. They’ll take you straight into Laramie.”
Libby started to say something, but Brock stopped her. “No time. I’ve got to go. You stick tight and do what you have to, gal. As will I.” He managed a flicker of a smile. “Besides, don’t figure on being shed of me quite yet. I plan on doing my damnedest to make it back here . . . I’m a powerful stubborn cuss when I set my mind to something.”
A moment later he’d turned and clambered up over the rocks and was gone from sight.
* * *
“They’re down in that splayed-out notch,” said Wilby, pointing. “See ’em? In amongst those bushes?”
“No,” grunted Hinkson. “With all those bushes, I can’t see—Hold it. Okay, yeah, I can get a glimpse now. Some fella in a dark hat doin’ a lot of talkin’. And I can see the horses sort of stickin’ out, too.”
“Yeah, I’m gettin’ about the same glimpse,” said Macready. “I can’t really make out a whole lot.”
“You don’t have to see every exact detail,” insisted Wilby. “The main thing is that you got a fix on where they’re at. Me, I had a good look before they got themselves tucked in there so deep. You’ll have to take my word that there’s two men, a woman, and three horses.”
“Okay. We got that,” said Hinkson. “Now how do we play it from here?”
Wilby frowned. “What’s so complicated? We sneak down quietlike until we’re close enough, and then we jump out and grab ’em.”
“That ain’t no plan,” protested Hinkson. “For cryin’ out loud, Wilby. I never did hear what you did to get yourself throwed in the pen, but with plannin’ like that for whatever crime you committed, it ain’t no blasted wonder where you ended up.”
“Yeah? Well if you’re so brilliant,” said Wilby, “then how did your black ass get—”
“Knock it off you two. Jesus!” said Macready. “We’re onto a really good break here. You tryin’ to ruin it?”
Hinkson and Wilby glared silently at each other for several beats, then turned their heads to look at the young Tennessean.
“I suppose you got some kind of plan?” said Wilby.
“As a matter of fact I do,” Macready responded. “What I was thinkin’ was this. One of us should stay up high, sort of like a lookout and guard. Down a little closer than where we’re at now, but still well above that notch. The other two make their way down on each side, sorta like Wilby said, and close in on ’em. Like a pincer, see?” Macready made a squeezing motion with one hand. “When the two on each side are in place, the up-high fella fires a shot down. That’ll draw the attention of those in the notch, dis-tractin’ ’em, and at the same time be a signal for the side men to go ahead and jump ’em.”
Wilby spread his hands. “Ain’t that what I said?” “Just a little thicker on detail, in case you didn’t notice,” said Hinkson. “But never mind that. I think the kid laid it out pretty good. The only question left is who stays up and who goes down on the sides?”
Chapter 44
Bob Hatfield rode toward the Orphan Peaks—although he had no idea the cluster of rocks even had a name—at a harder pace than he’d previously been following. He wanted to get there and explore that gunshot as quickly as possible. In case it turned out not to have anything to do with his quarry, of which there was probably a better than even chance, he wanted to determine that without wasting any more time than necessary.
All the while, of course, there remained another possibility. Not only that the gunshot he’d heard didn’t have anything to do with those he was after, but Brock might be leading the rest in a whole different direction and they were a hundred miles away.
Bob shook off those negative thoughts. He’d plunged himself in this far, damn it, he wasn’t ready to believe it was all for nothing.
Drawing close to the sprawling rock formation, he reined up once more and again put his binoculars to use. He scanned the high peaks, the tumbled rocks, and the gullies and other low places where growths of bushes and trees could be seen. The sprawl of the place was larger than he’d first judged. Just as some serious doubts were starting to build about how long it might take to fully explore what lay before him, Bob caught a flicker of movement off to one side.
He swung the binoculars and focused their magnified view on a moderately high point in the rocks where three men were crouched in serious conversation. All three were armed and decked out in clothing marked with prisoner stripes.
Bob’s memory flashed back to the telegrams he’d received in Rattlesnake Wells on the afternoon just ahead of the second attempted bank robbery and the jailbreak. One had been an advisement on the legal status of Vernon Brock; the other, which he’d paid little mind to at the time, had been a notification about three prisoners who’d escaped from the Laramie prison.
Damn. He quickly fell to pondering how much of an obligation he felt toward getting involved with the discovery of the prisoners. They were clearly desperate and dangerous men. And he was a lawman, albeit one far out of his jurisdiction.
That detail hadn’t stopped him from going after Brock and the others. Under different circumstances, he knew it wouldn’t be enough to hinder him from confronting those escapees. The trouble was, the circumstances weren’t different. If he took the time to brace the fugitives, he would—in addition to risking his life—almost certainly ruin any chance of ever catching up with his own fugitives.
Double damn.
Bob was leaning seriously toward leaving the three escapees alone, letting them continue to be somebody else’s problem, when he noticed that the discussion they were having seemed focused on a particular spot below their elevated position. Scanning down, looking more closely, he saw what was drawing their attention.
In a brushy notch between two weather-rounded, outward-extending fingers of rock, somebody was trying to keep out of sight. Unfortunately, there wasn’t quite enough room for them to stay completely hidden. Bob could make out a horse’s rump and a flash of color from someone’s clothing.
In other words, the escaped men were getting ready to converge on some innocent person or persons who’d had the misfortune to wander into a danger zone.
The choice of whether or not Bob should get involved was suddenly made for him. He had no other option. The possibility that whoever was in that notch would turn out to be Brock and the others occurred to him only fleetingly. That would be too wild of a coincidence to ever give serious consideration.
* * *
Because he was arguably the best rifleman of the three, Macready was chosen to man the high position while Wilby and Hinkson worked their way down the sides. Wilby went to Macready’s right, Hinkson to his left. The young Tennessean, in the meantime, climbed down to a somewhat lower perch above the notch.
Macready willed himself to be patient, to hold in check the excitement pulsing inside him. That was the worst part about being the one to hold the stationary position. If he’d been one of the others, stealthily working their way down closer, he could have concentrated on the stealth part and impatience wouldn’t have figured in hardly at all.
On the other hand, when Wilby and Hinkson jumped the men in the notch they almost certainly would be involved in killing. Macready didn’t mind being left out of that part. He’d kill if he had to, especially to make good the rest of his escape from that hellhole of a prison, but it wasn’t something he took lightly. Not the way Wilby or Hinkson seemed to.
Almost as soon as Macready had settled into his new, lower position, any chance for him to grow impatient was suddenly removed when he saw the man in the dark hat unexpectedly leave the cover of the notch and start to climb up into the higher rocks. Macready’s first reaction was to raise and aim his rifle. Almost as quick as he’d appeared, the man in the dark hat disappeared again in a crevice of some kind worn into the rocks he was ascending.
Macready swore under his breath. Now what was he supposed to do? Neither Wilby nor Hinkson had had enough time to get anywhere near close to where they’d set out for. If he fired a warning shot, especially with no chance to hit the man in the dark hat, all he’d accomplish would be to throw everything into a tizzy with no advantage gained by anybody.
Macready held his fire and calculated. The man ascending from the notch was on a course likely to bring him in contact with where Hinkson was going down. Macready could not currently see either of them. The best he could do, he decided, was to stay focused on a point where he estimated they might meet and be ready to cover Hinkson if he had to. He had to trust that Hinkson would be alert enough and good enough to deal with the man in the dark hat on his own.
So intent was Macready focused on watching and waiting for that development to play out he failed to notice the rider approaching fast from the outlying plains.
* * *
Hinkson paused on his descent to rest a moment and catch his breath. Damn. Wouldn’t do no good to sneak down real quietlike, he told himself, if he was puffing like a steam engine when he got close to that notch. All those months of mostly being cooped up in his prison cell had really gotten him out of shape.
Just as he was ready to start down again, he heard the warning scrape of a boot dragging across a rock. Before the sound could fully register, a tall man in a dark hat suddenly came around a large boulder directly ahead.
Their eyes met and both men spat curses. In the same instant, their hands grabbed for the guns holstered on their hips.
Hinkson was pretty fair with a gun, both short and long, but he never considered himself close to being a fast draw. Neither did Vernon Brock, not compared to many he’d come across. Nevertheless, it was an action he had a good deal of familiarity and experience with.
Brock’s Colt cleared leather and spoke first. Twice. Both slugs tore into Hinkson at close range, one in the center of his gut, one a bit higher, splitting his sternum.
Hinkson was punched backwards, staggering. Before he went down, he managed to get off one shot of his own. The bullet went wide and would have sailed harmlessly past Brock if it hadn’t ricocheted off a ragged boulder that sent it veering straight
into the side of the former marshal’s neck.
Brock staggered slightly but then stood firm. For a moment. He was aware of a dull, stabbing pain in his neck and when he tried to swallow, it made him suddenly cough. Thick droplets of blood sprayed from his mouth, spattered the ground just ahead of him, and dribbled down the front of his shirt. He dropped to his knees.
“Damn it all,” he said, more blood bubbling out with the words. Then he fell forward, his Colt clattering to the ground beside him.
* * *
The burst of gunfire heightened Macready’s attention all the more. He still couldn’t see either man—not Hinkson nor the man in the dark hat—but he was able to spot a hazy cloud of gun smoke rising from an area where it seemed logical they might have met. There’d been three shots, in quick succession. All from the same gun? Or had there been two different weapons involved? Macready couldn’t make up his mind but sort of thought it sounded like the latter. What did that mean, exactly? What difference did it make, either way, as far as what he should do?
He continued to watch anxiously, hoping for some sign of Hinkson, some indication he was okay. A glance in the other direction didn’t show where Wilby had gotten to. Macready wondered what his reaction would be to the new crash of gunfire.
Finally deciding that the shooting had changed everything and nothing was to be gained by staying put, he shoved from his spot and headed the way Hinkson had gone, down toward where he’d seen the gun smoke.
Chapter 45
Bob Hatfield had just reached the edge of the rock sprawl, about two hundred yards down from the notch where he’d seen people hiding, when the three gun blasts sounded—close enough that he instinctively tensed and ducked his head, thinking a bullet might be whizzing his way. None came.
But the shooting had been too close for comfort.
Rattlesnake Wells, Wyoming Page 26