“Seven others,” the sentry said. He puffed up and his gun wavered from its target. “You think I’m handsome? Of course you do. All the women do. I got them lined up around the whorehouse to just meet me, much less—”
Luke crept forward, intent on swinging his pistol and landing it on the side of the outlaw’s head. If the sentry paid no attention to anything but Marta, Luke similarly made the mistake of being single-minded. He never noticed his shadow stretching out in front of the outlaw—and spooking Marta’s horse.
The horse jerked away, pulling her off balance. The sentry glanced down, saw Luke’s shadow in time to throw himself to one side and avoid the worst of the blow intended to knock him out. Shock rippled up Luke’s arm as his gun barrel collided with the man’s right shoulder. The outlaw dropped to his knees and lost his six-shooter, but he hadn’t lost a speck of fight.
Snarling like a wildcat, he twisted around and grabbed with both arms. His right gave way because of the damage Luke had meted out, but his left tackled Luke powerfully enough to force him to the ground. They locked in a wrestling match, rolling over and over. When Luke’s gun hand hit a rock, he dropped his six-gun. The two men grappled, grunting and straining to gain the advantage. Luke ended up on his back with the man straddling his waist. Strong hands clamped around his throat and squeezed.
The guard had been injured, but compared to Luke’s bullet wounds, he was fully functional.
“Gonna choke the life outta you. Gonna have fun doin’ it. You cain’t blindside me like that and—”
The rain-softened embankment gave way. Both Luke and the outlaw plunged downward. Startled, Luke jerked to the side. As he turned he broke the grip around his neck. When the pair landed, Luke was on top. One knee crushed into the outlaw’s belly and a flying elbow caught him on the side of the head.
The outlaw gave a twitch and then lay still. Luke stared down at him, confounded. One instant he had been having the life choked out of him. The next he won the fight by breaking the man’s neck. He pushed up and wiped mud and dirt off himself. Noise above made him whirl around. His hand went for his six-shooter, but the holster hung empty at his side. He peered up into the bore of his own gun.
“Is he done for?” Marta Shearing peered over the edge. “Here. Catch.” She dropped his six-gun.
Luke caught it in shaky fingers and stuffed it back into his holster.
“He won’t warn the others.”
“His death will be noticed when a replacement comes to relieve him. Don’t just stand there. Come on!” Marta waved anxiously, urging him to join her. The climb proved more difficult than getting to the bottom of the arroyo. The more Luke climbed, the less energy he had. When he was almost to the top, the woman reached down, grabbed his collar and pulled him the rest of the way.
“Thanks. Climbing up was harder than I expected.”
“You ought to stay put. Wait for the owlhoot coming to relieve him and take him out. I’ll scout ahead.”
Luke considered it. He had started into the gang’s hideout feeling strong enough to come out of most fights. His brief wrestling match drained him. As he stuck out his hand, it shook like a leaf in the wind. Aiming with such weakness was dangerous. Hitting anything—anyone—looked to be impossible. But letting Marta risk her life going in alone rankled. Worse, this was his fight. She was a legal agent for a respected detective company, but she only did what she was ordered.
He did what was necessary.
“Getting yourself killed won’t help Audrey.” Marta fixed him with her stare. Her set jaw warned him not to argue.
He didn’t have the vitality to do more than sit cross-legged and look up at her.
“Go on. But just to scout,” he ordered. “Get the layout of their camp and come back for me. We’ll both go in. I’ll be rested up by then.”
She glanced up at the sky and nodded.
“It’ll be sundown in a couple hours. You get ready. I’ll be back then and we’ll go in under cover of twilight.”
She mounted and set off. Luke watched her until she disappeared down a draw, heading directly into the foothills. He knew a lie when he heard one, and that had been a whopper. She intended to take on Rhoades by herself.
Luke tried to stand, but his legs gave way. He cursed getting shot, cursed being so close and unable to do more, and then he cursed Marta Shearing for being so diligent in doing her job.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
HE FELT LIKE a ghoul robbing a grave. Luke spread the dead outlaw’s belongings out on the ground and picked through them, setting aside anything useful. When he finished his inventory, he dumped what he couldn’t use over the embankment to land around the dead man. Staring down for a moment gave him vertigo. He closed his eyes and stepped back from the verge. Weak. He was so weak. And he felt guilty stealing from a dead man.
A dead man who tried to kill you. Luke rubbed his neck. Hot streaks remained where the outlaw had throttled him. It had been a case of self-defense. That made him feel a tad better. Especially when he remembered who the dead man was.
Any of Rhoades’s gang he put six feet under—or in this case left for coyotes and buzzards, already circling overhead in the twilight—the fewer he had to fight when he found Audrey. Self-defense or not, kill them. They were murderers, each and every one of them. What chance did a simple farmer have against cold-blooded killers unless he ambushed them and otherwise hoodwinked them? After all, his killing was for a good reason.
Audrey.
He let out a howl of rage. That broke his self-pity. Everything was a flight of fancy until he learned the truth. And he would. He would.
He picked up a box of cartridges and stuffed them in his coat pocket. Then he tucked the outlaw’s pistol into his belt. He wished the calibers had matched between his Schofield and the Colt, but carrying a second six-gun increased his firepower. He had heard tell that William Quantrill and his filthy guerrillas rode into a town carrying six or seven loaded six-shooters. That gave them the firepower of an entire company of Federals. Luke pressed his fingers against the shrapnel in his chest. He had been the victim of an explosion. Over the years, knowing Rollie Rhoades’s penchant for such things, he imagined the outlaw had set off the explosion as part of a Border Ruffians’ raid. It made sense to him. Charles Hamilton, the leader then, had been like Quantrill. He enjoyed watching the frightened faces of his victims as he shot them.
The outlaw had left his horse saddled. Luke tended it the best he could. Moving about helped keep his leg and side from getting stiff. Now and then he felt a little jolt of pain, but ignoring it became easier as it grew darker. The sultry heat remained but direct sunlight no longer tormented him.
When the sun sank entirely behind the hills, he knew it was time for him to move on. Marta wasn’t coming back with her reconnaissance. She had either abandoned him to finish her assignment or been caught. Either way, he was on his own. He slung his fully loaded saddlebags over the plow horse and stepped up. All the moving around had kept him limber enough to ride without pain.
“Let’s go, old friend.” He patted the horse’s neck. The horse tensed under him and began dancing about. A few seconds later he heard what spooked his mount.
The steady hoofbeats coming straight for them might be those of the Pinkerton agent. Relying on his gut, Luke doubted it. Carefully reaching down, he drew his six-shooter and cocked it. If he had time, dismounting and finding a good spot for an ambush made more sense than staying in the saddle. But the rider was almost on top of him.
His instincts proved right when the rider called out, “Where are you, Dutton? I’m here to relieve you. Stop foolin’ around.”
“Here.” Luke hoped the grunt he uttered along with the word hid the difference in voices. The still night air carried sound far too accurately for him to hope to fool the dead man’s partner.
“You all right? You sound like you got a frog in your throat.�
��
Luke coughed to carry out the deception. When he heard only the sound of the other man’s horse, he knew he had been discovered. Without hesitation, he slid his leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground. He grunted again as the pain swept over him. The now riderless horse neighed and started walking. Not for the first time, Luke appreciated the horse’s single-minded gait. If it had taken off at a gallop, the approaching outlaw would have been alerted. The slow pace drew him in.
Luke had to make that unwitting deception work in his favor. He rushed forward, gun leveled at the spot where he expected the rider to appear. When he didn’t, Luke ducked and sprinted away.
“Dutton? Dutton? Where’d you get that nag of a horse? And where are you?”
Luke flung himself to the ground. He drew a bead on the outlaw, who snared the plow horse’s reins and led it back. For a moment the man sat astride his own horse, outlined against the twilight sky. What might have been an easy shot went unfired. This close to Rhoades’s camp, any shot would alert the others. Not only did that put Luke in danger, Marta’s scouting would be put into question. Getting her shot because of his own stupidity rankled. He stuffed his six-gun into his holster.
“Dutton?”
The outlaw dropped the reins and rode closer to where his partner had watched the trail along the bottom of the gully.
Toes digging into the ground, Luke rose and rocketed forward. The man wasn’t on guard, but his horse reared. Luke launched himself into the air, trying to drag the outlaw from the saddle. His fingers slipped across the man’s duster. Between missing a decent handhold and the rearing horse, Luke’s attack failed. He crashed into the horse’s rump.
Knowing what had to follow, he threw himself to the side in time to avoid the horse landing on its front legs and kicking out with the rear. He had failed to pull the rider down, but the bucking, spinning horse kept its rider occupied with trying to stay in the saddle.
Luke landed hard, rolled and came to his feet. He watched the horse spin around like a top. He jumped and grabbed the rider’s leg. As the horse continued to turn, he pulled the outlaw from the saddle. Unfortunately, the man came off the horse and landed atop Luke. For a moment, Luke found himself pinned down and unable to move. The only saving grace was that the outlaw was too shaken to fight.
They rolled over and over. Luke flashed on falling into the gully again as he had done with the sentry. Digging his toes into the soft ground brought him up short. The outlaw kneed him in the stomach and scrambled to his feet. Stunned, Luke lay there gasping for air. With a lurch he got to his feet in time to see the outlaw astride his horse once more. Luke touched his gun, then remembered what catastrophe a single report would cause.
He stumbled along to the sentry’s horse and pulled himself up. The plow horse was reliable. It was also slower than a rich man’s charity. He bent forward in the saddle and brought the captured horse to a full gallop. Following the other rider in the dark proved easier than he expected. Dust clouds and chunks of flying mud showed the way as surely as if he followed a map.
He overtook the other rider just as he turned through a sparsely wooded area and headed for the gap in the hills leading to what had to be Rhoades’s camp. Arm swinging out, Luke caught the other rider on the shoulder. That blow didn’t unseat him, but it did make him veer away from the valley. Luke leaned in and his horse responded perfectly. It must have been trained as a cow pony. Using his knees, he steered the horse closer.
Both hands grabbed for the rider. He leaned far out and clamped down on the outlaw’s gun hand to keep him from drawing his six-shooter. A huge heave lifted the man from his horse and dumped him to the ground. Luke kept his balance and wheeled around. It was a foolish thing to do but he never thought about it. Arms outstretched, he dived from horseback.
The impact as he hit the outlaw made him see stars. For the outlaw it was worse. His six-gun went flying and he sat heavily.
Luke shook off the shock and started to draw. The other man tackled him, arms circling his legs and lifting. Crashing to the ground in a flailing heap, they swung and kicked and tried to connect with their opponent. Neither had any luck until the outlaw came to his feet. He reached to the top of his boot and yanked out a thick-bladed knife.
“I don’t know who you are, but you’re gonna spill your guts.”
“I’m the man who killed Dutton.”
The use of his partner’s name confused the outlaw just long enough for Luke to bat away the knife hand and deliver a right cross. He pressed his advantage and wrapped his arms around the other’s body. Driving hard, he tripped the outlaw. This time Luke landed on top. But as he swarmed up to keep punching, he saw the other man had given up.
“Better you than me,” Luke muttered. As they fell, the outlaw’s knife had turned. The weight of Luke’s body drove the tip into an exposed heart. Without intending to, Luke had killed another of Rhoades’s gang.
He stared at the body. Not a twitch. Not a muscle spasm. The heart thrust had skewered all life in the man and left him a fleshy husk.
“How many men? Marta tricked Dutton into saying seven others. Who was he counting?” No matter how many the gang member considered, one less faced Luke now. Six? Was Rhoades in that number? He thought so. A minor follower and toady included his boss in any count.
Reaching down, he pulled the knife from its grisly berth and wiped it off on the man’s vest. A quick search found the sheath inside the boot top. Luke transferred it to his own boot. The more weapons he carried, the quicker he killed the men who had brought such misery to his life. With that thought, he stripped off the dead man’s gun belt and slung it over his shoulder. In addition to his own pistol and the knife, he had two captured six-shooters. That gave him eighteen shots before he needed to reload. Facing down six killers, he’d need that firepower and more.
A quick touch to his vest pocket reassured him that he also had the derringer Marta had used to break him out of the Crossroads jail. This time it carried two chambers loaded and ready for use.
“I hope it’s not the marshal I need to use it on again.” He took a few steps and got his balance before hunting for his horse. It had run off. So had the one ridden by the man lying dead at his feet.
He was lucky to be alive, but he threw his hands up in despair. Going into the enemy camp on foot was loco. As he started back to the spot where he had killed two of the outlaws, he heard a familiar clopping sound. Standing stock-still, he waited. The plow horse came up at its own speed.
Luke snagged the reins and patted the horse on the neck.
“I wish I had a sugar cube for you. Wait.” He rummaged through the saddlebags and found a dried apple. “It’s not much, but you deserve it for not making me walk.”
The horse took its sweet time nibbling at the apple as he held it out in his hand. When the horse finished, Luke stepped up and found stars to guide himself. He let the horse keep its own pace, which was slower than he wanted but gave him plenty of time to listen for any other rider on the trail. Marta was hours overdue, and for some reason the gang hadn’t moved on. If he had been Rhoades, packing the hideout’s corral with even more horses would have been the smart thing. Relay using the stolen horses to reach this spot, switch a second time and scatter throughout the West.
That they hadn’t done this meant the gang felt secure here. Safe from the law.
But they would never be safe from Luke Hadley.
He found a trail mashed down in the grass where several riders had passed recently. A check on the stars confirmed he still headed in the right direction. Dark hills rose slowly around him. This was the place where danger lurked. Posting a sentry back at the gully made sense only if Rhoades expected a posse to approach from that direction. An alert gave him time to retreat deeper into the hills, but a guard on either side of the valley leading into the maze of shallow canyons and wooded areas made sense to catch invaders in a cross fir
e.
He drew rein and listened rather than stared into the darkness. Then he took slow, deep breaths. No flare of a cigarette or smoke from a careless sentry anywhere. He gave the horse its head and let it set the deliberate pace into the mouth of the canyon. Looking for tracks without using a torch required him to dismount. The pressure of finding what had happened to Marta Shearing wore on him. There hadn’t been gunfire, but that meant little. He had been occupied killing outlaws and missing a pitched gun battle wasn’t out of the question.
Or she might have ridden smack-dab into an ambush. Having three or four rifles leveled at her convinced even the most stubborn Pinkerton agent to surrender without a fight.
As he rode, he closed his eyes to concentrate on sounds. Only those he expected came to him. Crickets chirped and distant wildlife moved about, finishing dusk meals and returning to burrows—or hunting for the slowest to return to their burrows.
The distant scent of firewood alerted him to the presence of others. He came to a fork in the canyon. Riding to the heights on either side afforded a chance to look down and be sure what he faced, but the woodsmoke wafting down from the left-hand branch now carried a hint of savory stew with it. His mouth watered. Even his horse responded by pulling away from the right valley floor and straining to the left.
He let the horse set the pace again as he drew the pistol carried in the gun belt slung over his shoulder. In less than ten minutes he caught sight of smoke curling upward. The still night allowed it to rise straight to the heavens. Following it back down, he found a small cabin partly hidden by a ring of oak and maple. A window in the side was covered with waxed paper. The door hung crooked on its hinges, letting light ooze out around the frame. Cracks in the walls leaked light that looked like shiny claw marks, in spite of what had to be only a single coal oil lamp inside.
Tin Star Page 17