Rocky Mountain Showdown

by James Reasoner

  A horrible premonition raced through Celia's brain. "Who . . . who is this man?"

  "You remember hearing talk about an attempted robbery yesterday at one of the banks downtown? The teller who prevented the theft and killed a couple of the robbers is a man named Fox. He's the one being held prisoner. Like I said, I have no idea what he has to do with the case, but his boss, Warren Judson, is involved up to his neck-"

  Devlin broke off when he realized Celia was shuddering. "What is it? What's wrong?"

  Damn Preston Fox, Celia thought. He must have gotten caught in Judson's office, and now because of his carelessness, Devlin was going to have to risk his life in a rescue attempt.

  But there was no doubt in her mind that Fox would die if someone didn't help him.

  "I . . . understand what you have to do," Celia said. "But please be careful."

  Devlin cupped her chin and tilted her head back. He smiled down at her. "You can bet on that. Still, I had to see you before I go in there, just in case —"

  Celia put a finger on his lips. "Don't say it."

  He shook his head. "I've got to. I couldn't have all the lies and secrets between us any longer. I don't know what the future will bring, Celia, but I wanted you to know that what we've had here . . . was real."

  She buried her face against his chest again. "I know," she murmured, "I know."

  Devlin held her for a moment longer, then released her and picked up his hat. "I have to get back there," he said, not even looking at Celia now for fear that his resolve would shatter. He slipped his army Colt from its holster and checked the loads in its cylinder, an act which sent another cold chill through Celia with its grim meaning. "I've waited too long already."

  He settled his hat on his head and went to the door, pausing only long enough to cast one last glance at her over his shoulder. Then he was gone, the door shutting softly behind him.

  Celia stood there for only a moment, and then she reached for her coat. Fox was her teammate, and Devlin was . . . Well, Devlin was important to her.

  If there was anything she could do to help both of them, she was damn well going to do it.

  * * *

  Landrum and Glidinghawk had ridden out from Denver during the afternoon, heading west. They had kept a sharp eye on their back trail as they gradually curved to the south. The Omaha had good eyes, as did the Texan, and both men were experienced in these matters.

  They would have been willing to bet that no one was following them.

  Late in the afternoon, Landrum had said, "We'd better be heading back."

  Glidinghawk nodded. "Fox has learned a great deal, but I still have a bad feeling about this, Landrum."

  "You and me both," Landrum agreed grimly. He put the spurs to his mount and kicked it into a loping run to the northeast, toward Denver.

  Even though they had ridden fairly hard, it was still after dark before they reached the city. They dropped the pack animals off at the livery stable but kept the saddle horses. Riding through the alley behind Judson's bank, they saw that the place was dark and appeared deserted.

  "Well, at least he didn't blow the place up," Landrum grunted. "After what he did to that mountain up in Montana Territory, I was afraid he might've taken a liking to dynamite."

  Glidinghawk dropped silently out of the saddle and tried the back door of the bank. "Locked," he said. "Maybe Fox hasn't even been here yet."

  "That's possible," Landrum allowed. "Come on. We'll go back to the hotel and see if Celia's heard from him."

  After riding through the back alleys to the hotel, they left their horses tied up where the animals wouldn't be noticed, then slipped up the rear stairs. The two of them had just reached the second floor and started down the hall when the door of Celia's room opened hurriedly.

  She came out into the hall and stopped abruptly as she saw them. Landrum noted the worried lines on her features and the expression of relief that passed over her face when she spotted them coming toward her.

  Something was wrong, damned wrong.

  He strode forward and put his hands on her shoulders. "What is it?" he asked.

  "Fox has been captured. He's at Madam Henrietta's with Judson. They're going to torture him to find out who he is and how much he knows."

  The words came spilling out of Celia. Glidinghawk's breath hissed out between gritted teeth, and trenches appeared in Landrum's lean cheeks as his face grew taut. "How the hell did you find out all of this?" the Texan asked.

  "Devlin Henry told me."

  Glidinghawk frowned. "That army major you're sweet on? What's he got to do with any of it?"

  Celia laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. "He's an undercover operative for some general back in Washington. He was sent here on the same mission as we were."

  Landrum gave a small shake of his head as he tried to absorb that surprising piece of information. "Does Henry know about us?" he asked.

  "He certainly didn't seem to," Celia replied. "He's going to try to rescue Fox, but he . . . he wanted to see me first and tell me the truth. He's in love with me, I think."

  "Yeah, well, we'll worry about that later," Landrum grunted. He realized he was still holding Celia's shoulders. He let her go and stepped back. His hand went to the walnut grips of his .44. He slipped the gun out and spun the cylinder to check the cartridges in the weapon, unconsciously copying Devlin's earlier action. Glidinghawk was doing the same thing.

  "How long ago was the major here?" the Omaha asked.

  "He just left a few minutes ago." Celia looked at both of her partners and went on, "We've got to help him. We've got to try to get Fox out of there.

  Landrum nodded. "Reckon you're right. But I'd like to keep our real identities a secret, too, if we can. Glidinghawk and I will work out some kind of story on the way over to Madam Henrietta's."

  "What about me?"

  "You're staying right here," Landrum told her flatly.

  Celia's temper flared. "The hell I am! I'm part of this team, too, Landrum Davis, even though you seem to forget that at times. I've been shot at just as much as you and Gerald!"

  "That's nothing to brag about," Glidinghawk pointed out dryly.

  "And you're still not going," Landrum added.

  Celia opened her bag and drew out a small revolver. "We're wasting time," she snapped. "I'm going, and that's all there is to it." She thought feverishly in an effort to find a reason that would convince Landrum. "If we can catch up to Devlin, I can tell him that I ran into the two of you and told you about what's happening because you work for the commission. You can offer to help him rescue Fox."

  "Why should he trust us?" Landrum asked. "He doesn't know us."

  "But he does know and trust me," Celia pointed out. "Besides, he knows that you two came to Denver on the same train he did. How could you be part of the trouble when you just got here?"

  Landrum nodded thoughtfully. "Might work," he allowed. "I guess it's worth a try. But you lie low when we get there."

  Celia nodded. She was willing to agree to almost anything at the moment if they could just get moving.

  "Come on," Landrum said. "We've just got the two horses, but I guess you can double up with me."

  Celia smiled and put the gun back in her bag. She kept her fingers clenched around the butt of it, though, as they hurried downstairs and out into the alley.

  Landrum and Glidinghawk mounted up, and then Landrum reached down to give Celia a hand. She grasped his wrist and swung herself onto the horse's back behind the saddle.

  "Hang on tight," Landrum told her. "We've got to hurry."

  Celia nodded, leaning against his back and putting her arms around his middle. She locked her hands together as Landrum kicked the horse into a gallop.

  They rode out of the alley and around to the street that ran in front of the hotel. Celia could feel her heart pounding in her chest as she held on to Landrum. The beat of her pulse seemed as loud as the drumming of the horses' hooves on the hard-packed dirt of the street.
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  She prayed they would catch up to Devlin in time. If he went in there alone, one man against who knew how many well-armed foes . . . and among them the cold-eyed killer called Roland —

  Celia shivered and held on tighter to Landrum.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Major Devlin Henry gave a friendly grin to the man who admitted him to Madam Henrietta's. He recognized the man from his previous visit, and the doorman seemed to remember him as well.

  "Good evening," Devlin said. "I'd like to see Madam Henrietta."

  "Of course, sir. I believe she's in the parlor."

  Devlin kept smiling to hide his disappointment. He wanted to get upstairs, because that was probably where Fox was. He had assumed that Roland would be summoned to escort him to Henrietta's office, and as soon as they were in the upstairs corridor, Devlin had planned to jump Roland and knock him out.

  It wasn't going to work out that way. So he would just have to make the best of it, he told himself.

  He went on into the parlor. There were fewer customers tonight than on his earlier visit, perhaps because the colder weather was keeping some folks at home. But there were still plenty of happy people in the big room.

  Devlin spotted Henrietta near the bar and began threading his way through the crowd toward her. She saw him coming and smiled. To look at her, he thought, you wouldn't know that she had anything to hide.

  "Good evening, Devlin," she said as he came up to her. "I really didn't expect to see you back here."

  "I had to come see you again," he replied, trying to decide what tack to take with her. Appealing to her greed would probably be the best course. "I have some business matters to talk over with you."

  Henrietta frowned prettily. "What sort of business could you and I possibly have, Devlin? I thought the divorce decree had severed all of our ties."

  "Except a certain amount of friendship," Devlin amended, and he was surprised to find that he was telling the truth. There was a part of him that was still fond of Henrietta. He went on, "Could we go upstairs to your office and discuss it?"

  She shrugged her bare shoulders. "I suppose so. I'm not needed down here at the moment. Come along."

  She carried herself with a certain imperiousness, he thought as he followed her up the broad staircase. And her beauty was undeniable. It was a shame she had never been able to resign herself to being the wife of a military man.

  God, how he had loved her!

  But that was all over now. If she was involved in the plot he was investigating, he would do his best to bring her to justice, just as if he had never met her before.

  When they reached her office, Henrietta strolled in and left the door open. She went behind the desk but didn't sit down. "Now," she said, "what are these business matters you need to discuss with me, Devlin?"

  He glanced around the room. "Where's Roland?"

  Henrietta waved a hand. "Oh, he's around somewhere, I assume. Why?"

  "I just thought you'd like to have him here."

  She laughed shortly. "I assure you, my dear, I can handle my own affairs without some man to hold my hand." Her tone became more impatient. "What was it you wanted?"

  "This," Devlin said.

  His fist shot across the desk, catching her on the point of the jaw. He pulled the punch somewhat, but there was still enough power in it to snap her head around. Henrietta didn't make a sound. Her eyes rolled up in her head and she slumped to the floor behind the desk.

  Devlin grimaced as he leaned over the desk to make sure she was unconscious. Despite what had happened between them in the past, he hadn't enjoyed that.

  Henrietta certainly hadn't acted as if she knew a man was probably being tortured under her roof at this very moment. Devlin suddenly wondered if he could have been wrong about her.

  There was too much evidence pointing to this house as the center of the plot against the commission. She had to be part of it, he thought. Or did she?

  Devlin's eyes narrowed in thought. From what he had seen of Roland, the man was capable of almost anything. Could he have been working behind Henrietta's back?

  There would be time to sort that out later. Right now he had to find Fox.

  Devlin unsnapped the flap of his holster and slid his Colt out as he went into the hall. Walking quietly, he went to the doors of the other rooms along the corridor. The doors were fairly thick, but not so thick that he couldn't hear sounds coming from the rooms that were occupied.

  From several of the rooms came the unmistakable noises of lovemaking. Devlin passed them by and concentrated on the rooms from which no sounds emanated. Finding the doors unlocked, he jerked them open and went in quickly, his gun ready.

  The rooms were as empty as they had sounded from outside.

  That left the third floor. Devlin went to the rear stairs this time, ducking around a corner just as one of the house's customers, accompanied by a girl, came up the stairs to the second floor. He catfooted his way up the stairs to the third floor.

  The same lack of results awaited him there.

  All the rooms up here were empty at the moment, although no doubt they would be in use before the evening was over. Devlin found a shadowy corner and stood there for a moment, trying to decide what to do next.

  So far, his daring rescue attempt had fallen, flat on its face. All he had managed to do was clout Henrietta. He was no closer to locating Fox.

  Unless . . .

  He returned to the narrow rear stairs and saw that they led up one more flight. It was possible, given the construction of the house, that there was at least one room in the attic. He would check up there, and then if that didn't pan out, all that would be left was the basement.

  The basement would be harder to reach without anyone spotting him. With his hopes centered around the attic, Devlin started up the stairs.

  They ended in a small landing. A dark corridor led away from the landing, and at the far end of the hall was a door. Devlin could discern its outlines because a light was burning on the other side of it, casting a faint glow through the cracks around the door. He started in that direction, tightly gripping his revolver.

  As he crouched outside the door, he was rewarded by the sound of a fist smacking into flesh, followed by a low moan. A voice said, "Give it up, Fox. You might as well tell us who you're working for. We'll find out in the end anyway."

  Devlin recognized the booming tones of Warren Judson.

  He grasped the knob, twisted it abruptly, and thrust the door open. As it banged back against the wall of the attic room, Devlin stepped through the entrance, pointing his gun right at Judson's startled, beefy face.

  "Hold it!" Devlin rapped.

  His eyes flicked around the room, taking in the scene. Judson and another man, one of the hefty doormen, were standing in front of a ladder-backed chair. Preston Fox was tied into that chair, and his face bore the marks of a beating. So far, though, that seemed to be all they had done to him.

  "What the hell!" Judson exclaimed.

  And then Devlin stiffened as a cold ring of metal pressed into the back of his neck. Roland said quietly, "Please don't move, Major, or I'll have to blow your spine in two."

  Devlin felt his heart sinking. He had let Roland sneak up on him, and now he and Fox would probably both die in this dusty little room. Some undercover agent he had turned out to be!

  "What is this, Roland?" Judson demanded.

  "I'd say the major here is not what he appears to be," Roland said. "Go on inside, Major, and we'll discuss it. But drop that pistol first."

  Devlin let the Colt fall to the floor. He hoped the impact would make it discharge and draw some attention to his plight, but that didn't happen.

  As Devlin stepped into the room, Fox opened his eyes and tried to lift his lolling head. Devlin saw the hope there in Fox's eyes, the prayer that someone had come to save him — And then he saw that hope die.

  * * *

  One of the doormen put out an arm and barred Glidinghawk's way. "No Injuns allowe
d in here, mister," he said to Landrum. Then, taking in Landrum's dusty range clothes, he went on, "And you don't look much like the type we cater to either."

  "I've got money," Landrum snapped. "And the Indian goes where I go."

  The doorman squinted at Landrum. "Say, don't I remember you from a few nights ago? You got drunk and we had to toss you out. You haven't come back to make trouble, have you, ace?"

  Landrum shook his head. "No trouble."

  A Winchester suddenly erupted into life somewhere behind the house, blasting away in a roll of gunpowder thunder.

  Landrum jerked his .44 from its holster and cracked the doorman alongside the head with the barrel.

  Shoving the suddenly unconscious doorman aside, Landrum bounded through the foyer and into the parlor, Glidinghawk at his heels. Several of the house's girls screamed.

  One thing about Celia, Landrum thought fleetingly. When she gave a signal, she didn't do it halfway.

  Their desperate ride through the night hadn't been fast enough to let them catch up to Devlin Henry. They had been close enough to see him enter the house, however, and since then had been busy coming up with a plan. Celia had been left in the alley behind the house with a Winchester to provide a distraction while Landrum and Glidinghawk went in the front door.

  Gunfire broke out in the house now, upstairs somewhere. Landrum caught Glidinghawk's eye and jerked his head toward the staircase. Shoving men aside, they made their way to it and started up.

  Two of Madam Henrietta's men appeared at the top of the stairs, guns in hand. Both of them snapped shots at the intruders.

  Landrum went to one knee as a slug shrieked close by his ear. He triggered the Colt and saw one of the men go spinning away with a shattered shoulder. Beside him Glidinghawk fired and dropped the other one.

  Then the Omaha was bounding up the stairs, Landrum right behind him.

  Well, they had never intended the plan to be really subtle, Landrum thought.

  Simply put, they were here to bust hell out of the place and pick up the pieces later.

  * * *

  As the cracking of the Winchester reached the attic room, Roland half turned in surprise. That pulled the barrel of his little pistol away from Devlin Henry's neck.