Fatal Justice

by Ralph Compton

  “You might be right,” Ash said in self-reproach.

  “What about Elisheba and me?” Jochebed asked. “Do we still get to play with him?”

  “You do not. We’re dragging him outside, tying him to a tree and getting right to it. Zeb, you fetch the skinning knife. Ab, you find the axe. Girls, we’ll need your sewing needles for his eyes and his oysters.” Jotham patted Ash and grinned. “Let’s have us some fun.”

  Chapter 20

  Stripped to the waist, his boots and socks removed, Ash girded himself for the horror to come. They had been true to their word; they’d dragged him out and tied him to a fir tree near the cabin and now they were squabbling over who got to carve on him first.

  Ash had hoped for a chance to make a run for it when they brought him out but two of the brothers had seized his arms while the third held a shotgun to the back of his neck the whole way.

  The sisters weren’t taking part in the argument. They stood to one side, studies in frustration, Jochebed in particular mad they didn’t get to play with him, as she put it. Petulantly stamping a foot, she complained, “Jot could let us have him for a few hours at least.”

  “Don’t say that louder unless you want a busted nose,” Elisheba cautioned. “Remember the last time you sassed him?”

  At Ash’s feet lay an axe, a skinning knife and several sewing needles. Plus a hammer. He could imagine the uses they would be put to and held back a shudder.

  “Damn your contrary hide,” Jotham was snarling at Zebul. “All this fuss when by rights it should be me. But I’ll tell you what. To show how fair I can be, we’ll draw sticks. Long stick gets to cut on him first. How would that be?”

  Abimelech gathered three sticks. Jotham broke the ends off two of them so they were the same length, leaving the third slightly longer. “Come over here, girl,” he said to Elisheba. He had her hold the sticks with the ends poking out and each brother took a turn picking one.

  “It’s me!” Zebul declared, waving the longest. Chortling, he came over and picked up the butcher knife. “Where to begin? Where to begin?” He jabbed Ash in the side and a scarlet flower blossomed.

  Ash flinched. He had made up his mind not to break, but he knew he would. There was only so much a person could take. “Cut me loose and give me a fighting chance.”

  Zebul was about to jab him again. “No way in hell. You brought this on yourself. Now you can take your medicine.” He laughed and the knife flashed and another crimson petal appeared.

  “I hope you’re tough enough to last the rest of the day and all night, besides,” Jotham remarked. “There’s nothing I like better than carving on people.”

  Zebul held the knife down low. “How about I start with his oysters, brother? Like we did that prospector that time?”

  “Not yet,” Jotham said. “Some can’t take the shock. We’ll save those for later, after we’ve chopped off his fingers and toes.”

  Ash’s mouth had gone dry. He began to quake and willed his body to stop. He would be strong for as long as he could.

  “I have an idea,” Jochebed said. “Why not start with his tongue? He’ll only use it to cuss us anyway.”

  “I like that.” Zebul reached for Ash’s mouth. Ash jerked his head away but Zebul got hold of his lower lip and about tore it off. “Keep still or you’ll only make it worse.”

  Ash clenched his teeth.

  “That won’t do no good,” Zebul told him. “I’ll just cut away the gum and pry out your teeth one by one.”

  “Do it!” Jochebed urged.

  Zebul pressed the blade tip to Ash’s lower gum. “Let’s see. How about if I start at the front and work my way around?”

  All of them were grinning.

  Ash swallowed blood and was overcome with dread. Here he’d thought he didn’t care if he lived or died. Here he’d thought his zest for life was gone. But he was wrong. He did like living. He had the same zest as always. Nothing had really changed.

  Zebul had the knife poised to commence. “Any last words?”

  Then a rifle cracked and the hand holding the knife exploded, bits of fingers flying every which way. Zebul leaped back and howled, his eyes wide in shock. “I’ve been shot!” he bleated the obvious.

  Another crack and Jotham whipped halfway around. The slug had caught him high in the shoulder. “Find cover!” he commanded.

  Like quicksilver rabbits, the Fraziers bounded into the woods. The rifle banged a few more times but as near as Ash could tell, no one was hit. Silence fell.

  Ash gazed down the mountain. He had a hunch who had come to his rescue.

  Movement alerted him to a Frazier slinking through the undergrowth: Abimelech, working lower. Ash opened his mouth to yell a warning but closed it again. The Fraziers might shoot him.

  Ash tried to break loose. His wrists were welters of agony. Breathless with worry, he waited. The minutes crawled. No more shots boomed. None of the Fraziers reappeared.

  Unexpectedly a head and a hat popped into view less than a stone’s throw away. Rin Templeton flicked a smile and came toward Ash in a crouch, holding his rifle ready to shoot.

  Ash was torn. He dearly wanted to be free but it had to be a trap. The Fraziers must be lying low, waiting for whoever shot Zebul’s fingers off to show himself. The rancher was playing right into their hands. “Don’t! Get out of here while you can!”

  Templeton paid him no heed. Turning from side to side, he came to the fir, reached down, and drew a boot knife.

  “Damn it. I don’t want you dead on my account.”

  “The three of them are searching for me below,” Templeton whispered back. “I’ll have you loose in two shakes of a calf’s tail.”

  “What about the sisters?”

  “Those two fillies I saw? I don’t know where they got to.” Templeton stooped and slashed at the rope and it parted but not quite all the way. He raised his hand to slash again.

  Out of a thicket hurtled Jochebed and Elisheba. Jochebed had the axe and her younger sister had the hammer. Screeching like bobcats, they flung themselves at Templeton.

  “Look out!” Ash cried.

  The rancher spun. He brought up his Winchester but he did not quite have it level when Jochebed buried the axe in his forearm. The rifle went off, the slug digging a furrow, as Templeton staggered back, blood spurting from a severed vein. He dropped the rifle and clawed for his revolver and had it almost out when Elisheba smashed the hammer against his wrist.

  Ash heard the crunch of bone. He lunged to help Templeton and was held in place by the rope. Frantic, he exerted all of his strength, heedless of the torment. The rope broke and he came up behind the sisters as Jochebed swung the axe on high. Templeton was on one knee, his good arm raised to ward off the blow.

  “Chop his head off!” Elisheba screeched.

  Ash tore the hammer from her grasp. She turned as he slammed it against her temple. With a groan, she buckled.

  Jochebed hadn’t seen. “You’re dead, Mister!” she cried at Templeton. “No one hurts our kin.”

  The axe arced down. Ash swung the hammer. Wood clacked on wood as the hammer’s handle caught the axe’s handle and stopped it from descending.

  “You!” Jochebed cried, and sprang back. She saw her sister and her face flushed with fury. “If you’ve killed her, so help me . . .” With that she came at him, a whirl-wind of retribution.

  Backpedaling, Ash warded off swing after swing. Some he dodged. A few he ducked. He was well aware that if he didn’t end it soon her brothers would show up and end him permanently. She was shrieking and hissing and swearing as if she’d gone berserk. The axe, with its long handle, gave her greater reach and she used it to her advantage, staying well away from him.

  From somewhere down the mountain came a bellow. Jotham, shouting that her brothers were coming to her aid.

  Ash doubted she heard, so intent was she on chopping him to bits. He tried to spring in close but the axe drove him off. He couldn’t get past it. He knew it and she knew
it. So Ash didn’t try. He feinted and side-stepped and threw the hammer at her face.

  Jochebed’s howl of pain and rage pierced the rari fied mountain air.

  She tottered back, her left eye half-shut and bleeding. “You’ve blinded me!” she screamed. “Damn you to hell, you’ve blinded me!” She came at him in a frenzy, swinging wildly.

  Diving, Ash rolled. The axe swished over his head and he scrambled up and saw that Rin Templeton had drawn his Colt. Templeton was drenched in blood and spurting more. Yet the rancher managed to hold the Colt steady and he fired as Jochebed turned, fired as she hiked the axe, fired as she took a faltering step toward Ash and fired as she fell.

  “You may have killed me but I’ve killed you, bitch,” Templeton gasped.

  Ash reached to help him. “We have to get out of here.”

  “Hell,” Templeton said. He was looking at the forest.

  A twin-barreled howitzer discharged both barrels at once and Templeton’s head burst, one ear flying one way and the other ear the other way.

  Ash dived again, this time for Templeton’s Winchester. Another shotgun went off but the spray of lead whizzed over his head. Flipping onto his back, he took a swift bead on Jotham’s chest. The hammer had already been pulled back so he figured there must be a round in the chamber. There was. The slug rocked Jotham onto his heels but he didn’t go down.

  Gaining his feet, Ash raced into the forest. He reached cover without being shot, and hunkered.

  The three bothers were converging on their fallen sisters. They could see that Jochebed was dead. Jotham and Zebul cursed in a fury. Abimelech knelt and lifted Elisheba’s head into his lap. She showed she was alive by groaning.

  Jotham began reloading his shotgun. “We go after him, you hear? We go after him and we make him suffer for Jochebed more than we have made anyone suffer, ever.”

  “I don’t need an excuse,” Zebul declared, holding up the bloody stumps that had once been fingers. “This is his fault. He didn’t shoot me but he’s the reason they came after us.”

  “I’ll stay with sis,” Abimelech offered.

  Ash worked the lever and raised the Winchester. He had them. Three shots and it was over. He centered on Jotham’s forehead and squeezed—and the rifle clicked. The reason hit him like a ton of rocks. The Winchester was empty. Templeton had used up the rest of the cartridges and hadn’t thought to reload or didn’t have the time.

  Ash didn’t have any ammunition on him. Under the circumstances all he could do was retreat deeper into the forest.

  “There he goes!”

  A shotgun thundered and a tree branch above Ash’s head dissolved in a shower of slivers. He was around the trunk before they could try again.

  “We’re coming for you, bastard!” Jotham bellowed. “You’re as good as dead. Do you hear me?”

  Ash wondered how it was that Jotham wasn’t dead. He was positive he’d hit him dead center. Skirting a rock outcropping, he stopped. Should he go higher or lower? He went up, pumping his legs, seeking a likely spot to spring a surprise.

  He held on to the Winchester, empty though it was.

  The woods had gone quiet. Now that Jotham’s initial rage had passed, the Fraziers were as silent as ghosts.

  Ash was sorry for Templeton, but the rancher had been foolish to do what he did. Now Ash would have to go to the Box T and break the news. He’d always hated that chore as a lawman and felt no better about it now.

  Above the outcropping was a large log. Jumping over it, Ash flattened. This would do nicely. If they followed his tracks they would be right on top of him before they realized he was there.

  To the east a jay squawked. To the west several finches took noisy flight.

  Birds didn’t spook like that without cause. Ash looked to the west. A silhouette took shape, moving slowly, searching. He pressed low. Whichever brother it was would pass within twenty feet of him. Ash’s eyes began to hurt, he stared so hard.

  A soft scrape came from the other side of the log.

  Ash dared a quick peek.

  Zebul was almost to the top of the outcropping. The missing fingers didn’t seem to bother him much. He held his shotgun in the crook of his elbow with his other hand on the hammers and triggers.

  Ash rolled onto his back, the Winchester on his chest. Gripping the barrel in both hands, he tensed. A shadow darkened the top of the log and then darkened him. Zebul was above him, peering intently into the woods ahead. Careful of the shotgun’s muzzles, Ash jumped up and swung. The Winchester’s hardwood stock caught Zebul full across the face. The shotgun thundered, the barrels emptying into the ground and not into Ash. Zebul tottered, stunned, and Ash swung again at Zebul’s throat.

  Zebul toppled. Coughing and gagging, he thrashed wildly about. He flailed, he kicked, he bucked. The convulsions might have gone on, only Ash struck him a third time on the forehead.

  Ash was pleased. One more down, one less to deal with. Crashing and crackling alerted him to Jotham, who was charging from the west like a bull gone amok, plowing through everything in his path.

  Ash ran. He wished he’d grabbed Zebul’s shotgun. Now there was no time. A cry of loss and outrage told him Jotham had seen Zebul’s body. Ash flew faster.

  He went a short way and glanced over his shoulder, thinking possibly he had gotten away.

  Jotham was after him, coming on swiftly, death writ on his face.

  Ash vaulted a boulder and sped around a spruce. Ahead was a slope strewn with small rocks. He started up only to have the rocks slide out from under him. He fell onto his right knee, got a hand under him, and went to rise.

  Past the spruce pounded Jotham. The instant he saw Ash he threw the shotgun to his shoulder to fire.

  “Now you die!”

  Chapter 21

  Ash threw the Winchester at him. It was the only thing he could think of to do. The rifle struck the shotgun and the twin muzzles swung skyward just as Jotham fired. Ash hurled himself at Jotham. His shoulder caught Jotham low in the legs and upended him.

  Ash made it up first. He was weaponless so he resorted to his fists and caught Jotham with a looping right as Jotham started to rise. Incredibly, it had no effect. Roaring like an enraged grizzly, Jotham wrapped his arms around Ash and squeezed.

  A bear hug. When done by a strong man, a really strong man, it could squeeze the life out of a person.

  Jotham was immensely strong.

  Pain shot down Ash’s spine. Arching his back, he kicked and struggled. Pressure filled his chest. God, no! he thought. He was having an attack. He would be weak at the very moment he needed what strength he had left. He kicked harder, thrashed harder.

  Jotham laughed. It was a cold, fierce, brutal laugh, filled with venom. “I have you now, you son of a bitch.”

  Ash’s vision began to blur. He drove his forehead against Jotham’s face, against his mouth and then his nose, and was rewarded with a spurt of blood and a yowl.

  “You’ll have to try harder than that,” Jotham taunted.

  “Try this, then,” Ash said, and drove his knee up and in. Once, twice, three times.

  Jotham grunted and colored. He swayed. He gurgled and teetered. A fourth blow brought a cry and Jotham’s arms slackened enough that Ash heaved free. He kicked Jotham in the right knee. He kicked Jotham in the left knee.

  Jotham crashed down. Roaring in fury he grabbed at Ash, but Ash skipped aside. Ash saw the shotgun and snatched it up. Swinging it by the barrels, he smashed it against Jotham’s head. Again and again he swung, battering through Jotham’s outflung hands, striking again and again and again until it occurred to him that Jotham wasn’t moving.

  His chest on fire, gasping for breath, Ash stopped.

  Jotham’s head resembled a crushed melon.

  Ash went through Jotham’s pockets. He found seven shells. Breaking the shotgun open, he extracted the spent shells and replaced them. Grimly he marched down the mountain. His chest was worse but he refused to stop. It didn’t help that the world wo
uld blur and then come into focus again.

  They were still there. Elisheba had recovered and was on her feet. Abimelech was hunkered next to Jochebed, his head bowed, his hand on her bosom.

  They heard Ash and turned.

  Ash used the first barrel on Abimelech and evaporated half his face.

  Elisheba screamed and turned to flee and Ash used the second barrel between her shoulder blades.

  Ash reloaded. Belatedly, he realized that was the last of them. The Fraziers were all dead. He stared at Templeton’s body, then shuffled toward the cabin. He needed his clothes. He needed the Remington. He needed morphine more than he needed anything.

  Ash reached for the door. His chest hammered and the ground and the sky swapped places. The cabin seemed to leap at him and a black cloud swallowed the small part of him that was left.

  Sounds. Images. They came and they went. Ash was vaguely aware of swaying. Once he heard voices. Another time he opened his eyes and there were stars above and a figure was huddled by a crackling fire. Someone said something, but he was fading out again.

  His return was abrupt.

  Ash blinked and tried to make sense of what he was seeing. Poles of some kind, poking through a hole. The smell of alcohol tingled his nose. “Can’t be,” he croaked.

  A form filled his vision. Ash blinked again and saw who it was. “You,” he said weakly.

  Broken Nose was examining him. “You have come back from the land of the dead. How do you feel?”

  “Like hell.” Ash had no strength, none at all. His chest hurt but not a terrible lot.

  “It has worn off, then. I will give you more.”

  “What has worn off?” Ash asked, and had his answer when Broken Nose squatted, holding the hypodermic. “You’ve been giving me morphine?”

  “For weeks now.” The Ute rolled up Ash’s sleeve.

  Ash’s forearm was speckled with marks. “Where did you learn how to inject it?”

  “I watched you.”

  The familiar prick preceded the familiar bliss. Ash embraced it, cherished it. Then he realized what Broken Nose had said. “Wait. Did you say weeks?”