Bob swung down from his saddle and quickly pulled his horses in behind some broken boulders that had spilled down from the higher cliffs. He tied their reins at the base of some tough, tangled bushes, yanked his Winchester from its saddle scabbard, and dropped into a low crouch. Making his way up into the rocks, he angled toward the source of the gunshots.
* * *
In the notch where she sat near the still unconscious Sanders, Libby had flinched at the burst of gunfire and waited with increasing anxiety in the silence that followed. She knew Brock to be a dangerous, competent man and had every reason to believe he could hold his own in a shooting scrape. Especially when he’d gone prepared, gone anticipating trouble. At the same time, he wasn’t invincible. Any man could be tricked or shot from ambush.
Damn it. Why didn’t he come back and tell her what had happened? Let her know he was okay?
As if seeking some reassurance, her eyes fell to Sanders, her estranged husband, still lying motionless where Brock had dragged him and cuffed him to the bush. No solace there. She shook her head. As if there would have been even if he was conscious.
Libby wished she had some tequila left. She could have found some comfort there . . . but she’d emptied the last of the bottle hours ago. Damn it.
She heard a faint noise over her shoulder, like the rattle of loosened pebbles. She spun around, her expression brightening hopefully even though the sound had come from the side of the notch opposite that which Brock had gone.
“Brock?” she said tentatively. “Is that you?”
When there was no response, she turned back the other way, thinking all the surrounding rocks might have bounced the sound in a confusing way. “Brock?” she said again.
Again, no response.
Once more from behind her, came the sound of bushes rustling and the dull thump of heavy footfalls. She spun around with a sense of alarm, not hope, knifing through her stomach and found a large man looming before her. He was unkempt and heavyset, clad in the unmistakable striped garb of a prison inmate. His unshaven face was split by a wide, leering grin. In his hands he gripped a rifle.
Libby started to raise the pistol Brock had left her. The big man moved with surprising speed, let go of the rifle with one hand, and knocked the gun from her grip with a powerful swatting motion.
She jumped back, her hand stinging sharply.
The big man took a step forward, leaning to scoop up the fallen pistol. With the pistol clamped in one hand and still wielding the rifle in the other, he took another step closer. Libby backpedaled until she came against the unyielding rock shoulder.
Wilby motioned with his rifle toward the still sprawled Sanders. “What happened to him?” he demanded.
“H–he was knocked unconscious,” Libby answered.
“Who handcuffed him?”
“The man who’s traveling with us. He’s a U.S. marshal.” Libby clamped her mouth shut tight, instantly regretting that she’d answered the man so easily and willingly. Thinking fast, trying to regain some ground with the menacing brute, she came up with, “The marshal went to signal some of the other lawmen who are elsewhere in these rocks. A whole posse is looking for this fugitive the marshal captured.”
Wilby scowled. “That’s a lie and we both know it. You three just got here. I saw you right after you came in off the plains. There is no posse.”
“There is too! Those shots a minute ago came from the marshal, signaling the others like I said.”
Wilby’s grin returned. “Those shots were a couple of my pals pickin’ off your marshal, more like . . . if the other fella I saw ride in with you even is a marshal.”
“He is, I tell you!”
“Yeah, and we both know you’re a liar. So what does that leave?”
“You’ll see soon enough when he returns.”
Moving once more in a sudden rush of speed, Wilby covered the distance separating them and slammed into Libby, pinning her hard against the rock. He brought the confiscated pistol up and pressed the barrel under her chin. “And what your so-called marshal will soon enough see, if and when he ever shows up, is me ready to blow your pretty little head off in case of any trouble. You understand?”
Libby tried to nod, but the gun barrel prevented it. “I understand.”
“Now it would be a real shame if it came to that,” said Wilby, beginning to grind his body against hers in a lewd way. “There’s a lot better things I can think of to do with you than blow your head off.”
“I’d rather take the bullet,” Libby said.
Wilby laughed nastily. “We’ll see about that. All in good time. Until we find out who shows up—your marshal or my pals—I’m a man starvin’ in more ways than one. What have you got as far as grub in those bulgin’ saddlebags I see over there?”
“There’s some beef jerky. And some—”
“Beef jerky will do for a start. That’ll give me something to feast my belly on while I’m feastin’ my eyes on you, darlin’, and waitin’ to see who makes it back here to join us. Now let’s move together, real careful-like, over to those saddlebags and find me some of that jerky.”
* * *
When Macready came upon the bodies of Hinkson and the man in the dark hat, he was rocked by the sight. Even though he’d seen violence before and had more or less been expecting a scene something like that following the gunfire that marked the meeting of the two men, it was still an unnerving sight. Especially the fact that it included Hinkson. Macready didn’t exactly consider the black man a friend, but he’d always been tolerable and decent enough in his own way. Particularly compared to Wilby.
“Dang it, Hinkson, why’d it have to be you?” the Tennessean said in a husky whisper as he knelt down on one knee and reached to thumb closed the fallen man’s eyelids.
He was still in that position when a tall, red-haired man aiming a Winchester stepped out of the bushes just ahead and off to one side.
“Every man has his time, kid,” Sundown Bob Hatfield said. “That fella had his—and, if you try anything foolish, I’ll have to see that you get yours.”
Macready froze. His grip tightened on the rifle he’d lowered down to his side when he’d knelt next to Hinkson. Recognizing he was in a bad fix, he didn’t try to bring it up. He knew when not to do anything to make it worse. That didn’t keep him from asking, “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m a fella who’s got the drop on you. That’s all you need to worry about right now. Just toss that rifle way off to the side. And remember I’ve got a bead square on your brisket.”
Macready had no choice but to do as instructed.
“Okay. Now—” Bob stopped short.
Brock, who lay on his stomach only a foot or so away, lifted his head and said in a thick, bubbly voice, “Adelia . . .”
Coming from a source Bob had thought was dead, so surprised the marshal it caused him to momentarily divert his attention away from Macready.
Although also surprised and shocked by the reaction from a seeming dead man, Macready was alert enough and desperate enough to take advantage of the distraction. He launched from his kneeling position and hurled himself in a headlong dive, slamming hard into Bob’s chest and midsection.
The marshal was driven backwards and bowled off his feet. Tangled together, they crashed through the bushes and went rolling down a steep incline strewn with gravel and broken chunks of rock. Bob felt the Winchester jarred from his grip and, even though much of the air had been driven out of him, he still managed to work up a healthy curse.
The men rolled to a stop at the bottom of the incline. Without attempting to rise to their feet, they began frantically kicking and punching one another, each hoping to land a stunning blow that would gain an advantage. Macready grabbed a melon-sized piece of rock and swung it down at Bob’s face. Bob managed to jerk away at the last second. Macready flopped awkwardly off balance, giving Bob an opening, but he didn’t have the leverage to throw a fist with any power behind it. He got a foot planted in Macre
ady’s chest and pushed his leg to full extension, separating the two of them and sending the Tennessean rolling several feet away.
Both men recognized the mistake—a near fatal one for Bob—at the same moment. Macready had stopped rolling within easy reach of Bob’s Winchester.
Instantly jackknifing to a sitting position, Bob shoved to his feet as Macready was grabbing the rifle and scrambling to stand up. He planted his feet and wasted no time to raise the Winchester. As many who’d gone up against his lightning draw died finding out, Sundown Bob didn’t need much time when it came to drawing and firing the Colt that rode in the holster on his hip.
There was no chance to talk the kid down. His intentions were made plain by the determination in his eyes and the sweep of the rising muzzle. Bob had only a split second to keep from being ventilated by a Winchester round and the only way to prevent it was by planting a pair of .44 caliber slugs in the center of Macready’s chest.
Chapter 46
“There. That marks the end of your phony marshal for double-damn sure,” said Wilby when the reports of two more shots reached the ears of him and Libby. “Ain’t no way he coulda got past both of my pals.” The leering smile he seemed unable to keep off his face whenever he was looking at her—which was practically every minute—stretched even wider. “Don’t worry, though, darlin’. He may have failed you, but I won’t. I’ll be right here to treat you real good.”
Libby cringed at the thought but said nothing. What could she say? All she could do was hope—hope that this vile creature was wrong and that Brock would return to fill him full of lead.
As if reading her thoughts, Wilby said, “But just to be on the safe side, let’s you and me scooch a little deeper back in this here notch and keep an eye peeled until we see who comes visitin’. And while we’re waitin’ we can cuddle real close and tight, with you sorta in front of me in case somebody takes a notion to start throwin’ lead recklesslike. It’d make me powerful sad if you was to stop a bullet meant for me, but it’d make me sadder still if I had to stop one on my own.”
He grabbed Libby roughly and dragged her along with him into a narrower part of the notch. On the way, they stepped over the splayed legs of Sanders, who was finally beginning to stir ever so slightly as he started to come to from the vicious blow Brock had delivered.
Wedged back far enough, Wilby turned so he was facing outward and jerked her in front of him. Once again, he ground his body disgustingly against her. He had the .44 in one hand, the muzzle held close to her face, while the other arm was clamped across her breasts except for when he would lift it briefly to take a bite of the jerky clutched in his fist. His breath against the side of her face was fetid, even worse than the sour stink that emanated from his whole body.
It was all she could do to keep from gagging.
She thought longingly of the derringer she’d brought with her to Rattlesnake Wells, the one she’d kept in the pocket of her dress until she’d used it on the deputy. Oh, how she wished she was still carrying it instead of having put it in her big carpetbag where it was doing her no earthly good. She’d had reservations about shooting the deputy, but she’d have none of the same about shooting the man brutalizing her. No, she would enjoy emptying the little gun in him and knew exactly where she’d aim her shots.
“Oh, yeah. This is mighty cozy,” Wilby said with a contented sigh. “I hope whoever’s comin’ takes his time, don’t you, darlin’?”
It was only a matter of two or three minutes, however, before a voice called to them, “You in the notch! You’re surrounded and you got no chance. Throw down your guns and give it up. Come out in the open with your arms raised and you won’t be hurt.”
“Of all the stinkin’ luck! He did make it past Hinkson and the kid,” Wilby muttered under his breath. Much louder, he shouted back, “You go to hell, law dog! I know you’re a lyin’ sack. You ain’t got jack surrounded. Ain’t nobody out there but you alone!”
“You’d be making a serious mistake to believe that,” Bob responded.
“And you’ll be makin’ an even more serious one if you try to push me into a corner,” Wilby hollered. “I got your woman in here. I got a gun held tight to her head. Guess what happens to that pretty little pumpkin if you ain’t willin’ to make a deal?”
Bob held off answering right away. Waiting. Giving the fellow time to sweat.
In that stretch of tense silence, Libby’s mind raced. She knew the voice didn’t belong to Brock, and yet it sounded vaguely familiar. So who was it? Where had she heard it before?
Suddenly the pistol snout was jammed harder against her temple. “Holler out there! You’d better convince your boyfriend that I ain’t foolin’ around.”
Libby wanted to refuse his demand, wanted to tell him to go to hell. If it had truly been Brock out there, maybe she could have. But it wasn’t, and she couldn’t. What she wanted most was to not get her brains blown out.
“You’ve got to listen to him,” she called. “Please don’t let him kill me!”
Bob stayed quiet for a different reason. He had to consider the woman. He’d been worried about Brock killing her. He couldn’t very well shrug off the even greater certainty of somebody else doing it.
“What kind of deal you got in mind?” he finally said.
“That did the trick, baby. You might even come out of this alive for real,” Wilby whispered harshly in Libby’s ear. Louder, he hollered to Bob “You give me an hour’s start, with the woman as my insurance. When I know I’m in the clear, I’ll let her go and you can come fetch her back.”
“I’m supposed to just take your word on that?”
“It’s all you’re gonna get, law dog. Either that, or you can take my word on what I’ll do to her otherwise.”
Bob ground his teeth. Anyway he mentally cut the deck, odds were mighty slim of drawing a high card. He’d been playing slim odds ever since his days as the Devil’s River Kid. “What about Sanders?”
“If you mean this slob you coldcocked and handcuffed,” Wilby replied, still thinking he was talking to the woman’s alleged marshal, “he’s still layin’ here right like you left him. You can have him back the same way. He’s no skin off my nose.”
“Okay. I’m coming down with my hands empty. You meet me partway, we’ll talk it through from there.”
“You bet we will, law dog,” Wilby whispered in Libby’s ear, followed by a nasty chuckle. To Bob, he called, “Come on ahead!”
Wilby moved out from the narrow part of the notch, keeping Libby in front of him, keeping her clutched tight, keeping the gun pressed to her head. Once again, she thought of her derringer and how she wished she had it on her person.
Somewhat startled, she was surprised to see the marshal from Rattlesnake Wells step into view at the wide mouth of the notch. That explained why his voice had sounded familiar. A surge of renewed hope coursed through her. She didn’t know how he’d caught up with them, but could it possibly mean that he did have a posse with him?
Bob came forward a few more steps and then stopped, holding his hands out wide at his sides. He’d left his Winchester back up in the rocks. His .44 was still in its holster on his hip and, invisible to Wilby and the woman, Hinkson’s pistol was jammed in his belt at the small of his back.
Wilby pushed Libby forward a little farther and then halted, too. “That’s a good start, Marshal. You said your hands would be empty, and I can see they are. But I can also see that hogleg on your hip is in mighty close reach. Lose it.”
Bob’s eyes narrowed. “That would leave me at a real disadvantage, hombre. I don’t know if I’m ready to go quite that far.”
“We do it my way or there’s no deal at all!” Wilby said harshly. “We already went through this. Any craw-fishin’ by you only brings the woman that much closer to gettin’ blasted. Is that the way you want it?”
“How about taking me as your hostage and leaving the woman here?”
“No! I made my terms clear. Take the gun from your holst
er—real slow, usin’ only two fingers—and lay it on the ground at your feet. I’ll let you keep it that close, but that’s as far as I go.”
Bob took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Then, just as slowly, he reached down to squeeze the .44 between two fingers and lift it out of its holster. He never took his eyes off Wilby as he leaned over to place the gun on the ground beside his right boot. He knew exactly what was going to happen when he straightened back up and he tensed his muscles to be ready.
Sure enough, as soon as Bob had raised his head and shoulders, Wilby shoved Libby to one side and drew a bead on the marshal. Bob’s split-second skill at the draw, even reaching behind him to grasp the gun secreted at the small of his back, once again allowed him to beat the odds.
The men fired simultaneously. As he swung the backup gun around and up, Bob let the momentum twist his body so that it presented the narrowest possible target to Wilby. The escapee’s bullet grazed the rounded edge of Bob’s left shoulder, leaving a deep bullet burn, maybe cracking a bone slightly, but nothing worse.
At the same time, Bob’s bullet pounded square into Wilby’s forehead, an inch above the bridge of his nose, snapping the big man’s head back. He took a single backwards step and toppled over as straight and hard as a felled oak.
Chapter 47
Dusk was settling, throwing long eastward shadows out from the Orphan Peaks.
“So you’re not going to change your mind about riding off into the night?” Libby asked one more time.
Bob shrugged. “Way I’ve been doing it. It’s worked out pretty good so far.”
“That explains how you were able to overtake us, even though we had a head start on you.”
“Reckon so. In this case, heading out right away means that much quicker I can get back to my family that I plumb miss.”
As soon as the words were out, he realized that as he’d said family, he was picturing Bucky and Consuela in his mind. Priscilla hadn’t been part of that mental picture until she slipped in a moment later. He felt an immediate pang of guilt, followed by the nagging question of why he’d initially envisioned what he had. He had a hunch that, deep down, he probably knew the answer . . . but he wasn’t ready to delve that deep just yet.
Rattlesnake Wells, Wyoming Page 27