“What time is it?”
“About four. I needed to be sure they were asleep. We’ll be long gone before they’re up and find you missing.”
“We could take them,” Ash said.
“Not with you in the shape you’re in,” Olander disagreed. “It’s better we get you to safety.”
“I’m dying anyway, remember?” Ash reminded him. “We’ll never have a better chance. They’ve all passed out from too much red-eye.”
“You know for a fact they were all drinking?”
“No, but . . .”
“I’ve already lost my deputy and that’s one too many. I’m getting you out of here,” Olander insisted.
One again Ash was denied his vengeance. He submitted to being hauled to the lawman’s mount and boosted onto the saddle. “We have to ride double?”
“Unless you can sprout wings and fly.”
Ash clung on as Olander climbed up.
“Hang on.”
Ash didn’t remember a lot of that ride. He faded in and out. The movement of the horse under him provoked the pressure in his chest to return. Pressure, but little pain. He clung to the marshal’s shoulders, his forehead against a shoulder blade. That he didn’t fall off was a miracle.
Then strong hands were helping him down and Olander was saying, “We need to rest. My horse is about done in.”
Ash blinked, and was astounded to find the sun high in the sky. It had to be ten o’clock, maybe later. He wearily nodded. They were in a clearing in the forest.
The sorrel was lathered with sweat, its head hung in exhaustion. Ash moved to a log and sat with his back to it, his head hung the same way.
“How are you holding up?” Olander had squatted in front of him and was cradling a Winchester.
“I’ve never been better,” Ash said, and could barely hear himself.
“I’m no sawbones, but if I had to say, I’d say you’re not long for this world. Is there anything I can do for you? I have water in a canteen. I have food in my saddlebags.”
“The water would be nice,” Ash said. The thought of food churned his stomach.
“Be right back.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Ash joked. A feeling came over him, a conviction that indeed he wasn’t long for the world, that he wouldn’t need to find the gun shark called Skelman and have Skelman end it for him. The lead lodged against his heart was about to finally do what it had been threatening to do for months. It could happen any minute.
Olander returned. “Here you go.”
Ash was strong enough to hold the canteen, which was something. He gratefully drank the wonderfully delicious water. Simple water. He gazed at the blue of the sky and the green and brown of the forest, and never in his life had the sky and the forest seemed so beautiful, so . . . enchanting. A silly notion, but there it was.
Olander brought him back to reality with, “They’re after us. I’ve seen their dust about a mile back.”
“Sharkey won’t rest until he’s caught me,” Ash predicted. “You’d be smart to leave me and light a shuck.”
The marshal tapped the tin on his shirt. “You know I can’t do that. You wouldn’t have either once, would you?”
“No,” Ash admitted. He had always tried to be the best lawman he could be. Maybe it wasn’t much as ambitions went but he could look back with pride and say he had done something right in his life or as right as any life ever got. He looked down at himself, at his stick arms and his stick legs, and shriveled inside. “Oh God.”
“What? Is it the pain?”
“Give me the rifle and go. I don’t want you to lose your life on account of me.”
“I’ve already told you I can’t.” Olander rose. “If we can keep our lead until dark falls we can shake them. They can’t track at night.”
“They can use torches.”
Olander nodded. “But it’s slow work. No, we’ll keep going and pray for the best.”
Tears trickled down Ash’s sunken cheeks and he didn’t care. “For what it is worth, I’m obliged.”
The marshal regarded him a moment, then said, “I want you to know something, Thrall. I’ve hardly ever said to any man what I’m about to say to you.” He paused. “I admire the hell out of you.”
“What?”
“I admire you. I can’t say it any plainer. I hope to God when my time comes I face it with half the courage you have.”
“Courage?” Ash repeated.
“You’re a walking dead man, as you called yourself, yet you keep trying. You’ve never once given up. You made it your work to track down the worst killers there are knowing you were the one person who could do it without having to worry about the outcome. Hell, yes, you have courage to spare.”
Ash’s chin touched his chest. He wanted to say, “I did it for the morphine,” but he didn’t.
“You are a credit to the badge you wore and I’ll be damned if I’ll let those murdering coyotes get their hands on you.”
“Please.”
“No, and that’s final. So drop it.”
Ash stifled a sob.
The marshal wasn’t finished. “Thank you for showing me what a life can be worth.”
Ash thought of the wife he lost and the children he never had and the home he never had, and only now, on the threshold of never, did he realize what he had missed. All those bawdy houses, those henhouses with their perfumed chickens, were a poor substitute for something a man could hold in his heart when his end came. “The emptiness of it all.”
“What was that?” Olander had moved over by the edge of the clearing and was peering through the trees.
“I wish,” Ash said, but he did not say what he wished. He passed out, only to be shaken awake he knew not how long after.
“We have to go. I can’t spare any more time or they’ll catch us.”
Once again Ash was boosted up. Once again he clung to Olander in order not to fall. The pressure, though, eased. He felt stronger. Not a lot, but enough that when they stopped on a bench that overlooked a winding valley, he made bold to say, “We should make our stand here.”
Olander shook his head. “It’ll be dark in a few hours. We keep going and we shake them and we’re safe.”
“I don’t want safe. Give me a gun and ammunition and I’ll hold them while you get away.”
“No.”
“They won’t be expecting it.”
“The answer is still no.”
Ash gripped Olander’s arm. “Listen to me. I feel all right at the moment. But I don’t know how long it will last. I have to do it now, while I’m able.”
The marshal looked at him.
“Think of all the people Sharkey has bucked out in gore. Do you want more to lose their lives because you wouldn’t let me stop him?” Ash gripped harder. “I can do it. I give you my word that if I only get one of them, it’ll be him.”
“Hell,” Olander said.
Ash had it worked out in his head. He pointed at the thickly wooded slope above the bench. “They’ll come down out of the trees like we did. They’ll be moving fast because they’ll want to overtake us before nightfall. Since we’ve been running all day they won’t be expecting me to make a stand. I’ll have them right where I want them.”
“We. We’re in this together.”
“Get away while you can, Lucas. You have a life. Mine is about over. I’m the one with nothing to lose.”
“You keep forgetting this,” Olander said, and tapped his badge again.
Ash argued, but it did no good. He moved to an outcropping of boulders that bordered the west end of the bench while Olander rode partway down the slope below and circled around. That way it would appear they had kept going.
Olander concealed his horse, then joined Ash.
“I only have the Winchester and my Colt. Which do you want?”
Ash was about the same with either but he had practiced more with his own revolver so he said, “The six-gun if you don’t mind.”
Oland
er held it out. “I’m better with a rifle anyway.” He unbuckled his gun belt. “You’ll need this too.”
After that they waited, the quiet occasionally broken by the chatter of a squirrel or the squawk of a jay. The sun dipped on its downward arc until it hung above the boulders. Ash grinned. It was exactly as he’d hoped; Sharkey and his men would be staring into it.
Then, with a crash and crackle of vegetation, the outlaws burst onto the bench and drew rein.
Chapter 33
They were all there: Ben Sharkey, Horton, Kline, Tyree, Buck and Nickels.
None had their rifles shucked or revolvers in their hands. They weren’t expecting trouble.
Sharkey rose in the stirrups and stared down the mountain. “I don’t see them yet. Damn.”
“We’ll get them,” Horton said. “With them riding double and us pushing so hard it’s only a matter of time.”
Ash smiled grimly as he extended the Colt. To his dismay, his arm shook a little, enough to throw off his aim. He gripped the Colt in both hands and lined up Ben Sharkey for the kill.
Tyree pressed a hand to the bandage on his arm. “I don’t see why we’re going to all this bother. So what if they get away? You can kill Thrall another time.”
“My feud with him has gone on long enough,” Sharkey declared. “One way or the other this ends before the day is done.”
Ash thumbed back the hammer. He breathed deep, held himself rock steady and was ready. He didn’t shoot, though; he savored the moment. He had wanted this for so long he owed himself that much.
“What are you waiting for?” Marshal Olander whispered.
Ash went to squeeze the trigger.
“Look out!” the man called Nickels shouted. “There in the boulders! It’s an ambush!”
Ash fired. Just as he did, Tyree, lashing his mount to get out of there, came between Ash and Sharkey. The slug intended for Sharkey caught Tyree in the chest.
A split instant later Olander cut loose with the Winchester.
Bedlam ensued. Some of the outlaws broke for cover. Others returned fire. Nickels was trying to control his plunging mount.
Ash fired as fast as he could work the hammer and the trigger. Olander was doing the same. Tyree took lead. A horse crashed down, whinnying.
The Colt went empty and Ash crouched to reload. He pried a cartridge from the gun belt, his fingers not responding as they should. He was slow, much too slow.
Olander was still firing.
Lead screamed off the boulders and a sliver of stone sliced Ash’s cheek. Ignoring the pain, he inserted another cartridge. Four more to go.
Hooves drummed. Buck was charging the boulders, shooting as he came, and he was a good shot too. Ash had to duck when he dared a quick look; a slug nearly took the top of his head off. He slid another cartridge into the cylinder, saying to himself, “Hurry, damn you!” A glance showed Olander swiftly reloading.
The hoofbeats were thunderous. Buck had reached them. His revolver banged and Olander said, “Oh!” and staggered back.
Ash reared up. He only had five cartridges in the cylinder. It had to do. He fired at Buck’s face and Buck’s nose dissolved. Shifting, Ash saw that Tyree was down and wasn’t moving. Kline’s horse was down too and Kline was firing from behind it. Of Sharkey, Horton and Nickels there was no sign.
Hunkering, Ash scanned the forest. “How are you holding up?” he asked without looking over his shoulder, and didn’t get an answer. “Lucas?”
Olander was propped against a boulder, the Winchester across his legs, his mouth opening and closing. No words came out but blood did, an awful lot of blood.
“No.” Ash scrambled over. A bullet hole high in the chest explained the blood. “Damn it. Why didn’t you listen?”
“Sorry,” Olander said, more a wheeze than a word.
“For what?” Ash was the one who should apologize. Olander was dying because he came to Durango.
“Leaving you to fight them alone.” Olander suffered a coughing spasm. “Take the rifle. Get as many as you can.” His eyes widened, “You never figure. . . .” That was as far as he got; his next breath was his last.
Ash slid the Colt into the holster. Grabbing the Winchester, he flattened and crawled to a different boulder. The outlaws had stopped shooting. The forest had gone quiet. Kline’s hat, or the top of it, was visible above the dead horse. Ash was tempted to shoot but he would have to expose part of himself to do it and be a fine target for the outlaws in the trees.
“Can you hear me, Thrall?”
Ash had no reason not to answer. “I hear you.”
“You and that tin star have shot my boys to pieces,” Sharkey shouted. “I don’t take that kindly.”
What a stupid thing to say, Ash thought.
“How about your friend the marshal? Is he still with us?” When Ash didn’t reply Sharkey gave voice to that cackle of his. “I reckon he isn’t. Serves him right for coming after me. He didn’t have cause like you do.”
Ash was reminded of Gold Gulch. He remembered how Sharkey had kept him talking while two others circled around to come on him from behind. It was said that only a greenhorn tried the same trick twice. But Sharkey might reckon it had worked once, so why not? Shifting so his back was to the boulder, Ash scoured the vegetation. He wouldn’t have much warning.
“It’s just you and us now,” Sharkey gabbed on. “Five against one. Not the best of odds.”
Ash didn’t take his eyes off the woods. The odds be damned. He had something else in his favor. He wanted Sharkey dead more than Sharkey wanted him dead.
“Make it easy on yourself. Drop your artillery, throw your hands in the air and come out in the open. I give you my word we won’t shoot.”
“Your word isn’t worth a cup of dog piss.”
“Why do you think I always find men to ride with me? They know I will back their play when they need backing.”
Ash let him jabber. He was as tense as tight wire, waiting for Horton or Nickels or both to show themselves.
“The devil of it is that now they’ll blame that marshal on me,” Sharkey blathered on. “I didn’t pull the trigger. It was Buck. But that’s always been how it works. I’ve been blamed for all sorts of things I never did. One time in Nebraska a man riding with me shot a gambler and the lead went all the way through him and through a wall and hit some woman walking down the street. I had nothing to do with it. That didn’t stop the newspapers from saying it was somehow all my fault.”
Ash squinted against the sun and focused on a particular shadow. Was it his imagination or had that shadow not been there a minute ago? He centered the Winchester on it.
“I know what you’re thinking. That I gripe too damn much. But if you saw what I have to go through you would gripe too.”
Ash fired. He’d half anticipated he was wrong and the shadow would turn out to be nothing, but the shadow leaped up with an oath and hurtled toward him, working the lever of a Winchester. It was Horton. Leaden death buzzed past Ash’s ear. Another slug tried to part his hair. Ash dropped onto his side and Horton kept coming, thinking he had been shot. He shot Horton in the chest.
Quiet fell.
“How about it, Thrall? I’m sure I saw you take a bullet.”
Ash lay on his side. He drew the Colt. He would have one chance. He must make it good. It worried him there was still no sign of Nickels. Kline was still out by the dead horse, so far as he knew.
“If you are finally dead I’ll dance on your grave,” Sharkey gleefully boasted, “and when I’m done dancing I will use your grave for an outhouse.” Ash was sure Sharkey couldn’t see him because of the boulders. Sharkey would have to come close to confirm the kill, which was exactly what he wanted.
He stared in the direction Sharkey would come from, every nerve tingling. “Please,” he said softly.
There was no response.
Ash prayed he wouldn’t have another attack. He prayed he wouldn’t pass out. He prayed Sharkey would fall for his trick. When he
realized what he was doing he went on praying anyway.
A shadow moved across a nearby boulder.
Ash locked his eyes wide as they would be were he dead. The shadow grew bigger. Ben Sharkey’s face and shoulders appeared above the boulder. Sharkey saw Ash and started to raise a revolver; then he stopped, his mouth curling in a vicious smile of triumph.
“At last.”
Ash prayed Sharkey would come around the boulder to check that he was in fact dead.
Sharkey did, smiling and chuckling and saying, “You were harder to rub out than anyone I’ve ever known.” He bent down. “It’s too bad I didn’t get to carve on you some, but dead is dead.”
Ash moved in a blur. He jammed the Colt’s muzzle against Sharkey’s forehead and in the instant that Sharkey was frozen in astonishment he said, “Yes, it is.” Then he squeezed the trigger.
Blood and bone and hair splattered Ash and the body thudded next to him. He stared at it but didn’t feel the joy he expected. All he felt was a strange sort of emptiness inside.
Ash rose and warily entered the woods. He circled around and discovered Nickels, dead. Olander’s doing, since Ash hadn’t fired at Nickels. The shot had taken Nickels in the ribs and exploded out the other side and somehow Nickels lived long enough to make it to cover.
Kline was still breathing, if barely. He was on his back, propped against his horse, a rifle on one side of him and his revolver on the other. He had been shot in the lungs. He tried to grip his six-gun when Ash walked up, but he was too weak.
“Damn.”
“Life,” Ash said.
“The rest?”
“Dead.”
Kline wheezed and growled, “You can go to hell.”
“You first,” Ash replied, and shot him in the head.
It took all he had in him, but Ash made it to Durango with Olander’s body. The sensation he created, the buzz of talk when he passed in the street, another newspaper story, meant nothing. All that mattered was what a local doctor told him; he was close, but it could still be weeks yet.
The morphine didn’t help anymore. All it did was waste him away but much too slow.
So it was that one evening Ash stood in front of the mirror in his hotel room. He didn’t look human. His face was a haggard skull. His fingers were reeds. Still, he had a trace of vanity left, and he’d bought a new suit and new hat and boots. He had paid his bill in full and made arrangements with a lawyer for disposing of his belongings and his horse. He only had one thing left to do.
Fatal Justice Page 24