“Over their heads!”
The shout was accompanied by the crack of a pistol shot as the Rebel officer gave an example to the sentries. The men canted their rifles skyward and sent a volley toward the glittering stars. The louder, more insistent crackle of the heavy caliber rifles produced a sharper reaction than the single pistol shot. The vast majority of the crowd halted abruptly.
“Again!” .
A second volley silenced the shouts and curtailed the advance of those who had failed to respond to the first The troopers were out on their own and fully exposed. But the dangerous open area between gate and door had been reduced to ten yards.
“About now, Cap!” Forrest said breathlessly.
Hedges kicked free of Seward’s hold on his feet and used his own strength to supplement the shove which Forrest gave him. He hit the ground in a faltering run for a few paces, then corrected it, bringing up the Colt and snapping off a shot. The troopers, strung out in an uneven line of headlong advance, were only a second behind him in firing their guns.
The surprise of seeing an apparently dead man rise and run toward them shocked the Rebel soldiers and officers into a fatal second of numbness. Bullets tore into their bodies and heads, and they were flung backward, splashing great gouts of blood across finely trimmed lawn and flawlessly whitened steps.
The Union men, led by Hedges, leaped across the sprawled bodies in the doorway and lunged into the elegantly furnished hallway of the building, sheering off to the right and left as a hail of bullets whistled after them. Then Bell slammed the massive door shut. Civilians and soldiers in the crowd, late in realizing they had unwittingly aided an assault against the presidential headquarters, sent a futile fusillade of shots toward the door. The wood exploded splinters, but was a solid defense against penetration.
Inside, Hedges wasted no time after raking his slitted eyes over the hallway, brightly lit by a sparkling crystal chandelier. There were five doors leading off at each side and a pair of double doors at the rear, beneath the elegantly curved wings of a flying staircase. He pointed the Colt up toward the ceiling and fired two quick shots, so close together they sounded as one. The fixture holding the chandelier was blasted apart, and the entire unit crashed down. Glass shattered and flaming oil streaked across the plush carpet.
As doors were flung open, the troopers leaped across the licking flames and fired their Colts. The Rebels replied with a wild volley. The troopers reached the double doors as a group, and Hedges and Forrest lashed out with their boots together. The doors sprang open and crashed back against the walls on either side. The men pulled up short and looked into the face of the man they had come to kill, stern and angular above a high winged collar, topped by an unruly mass of hair which swept off the forehead.
But the face was not real. It looked down at them from a portrait hung on the far wall, regarding the intruders along the length of a polished table. There was a vacant chair at the head of the table and a row of similarly empty chairs down each side. The two Gatling guns were mounted on rostrums flanking the head of the table. Each was manned by two gunners. Infantrymen with muskets aimed were ranged along the far wall to each side of the rapid fire guns. The flames roared in the hallway, and more soldiers moved toward the rear of the Union troopers through the acrid smoke.
“Outta the frigging fire and down the frigging pan,” Forrest muttered sourly as Hedges dropped his Colt.
“You ready to tell us your idea now?” Douglas snarled as he joined the others in releasing his gun.
“Don’t knock it till you know it,” Hedges replied easily.
He, like the others, jerked forward slightly as revolver muzzles were jabbed into their backs. None of the Rebels had uttered a word. The abrupt hiss of steam told of attempts to extinguish the flames.
“You can come in now, sir!” a young lieutenant called, coming away from the wall and grinning meanly toward the prisoners.
A door at one side of the long, narrow room opened, and a gray-haired man with general’s insignia on his uniform arms stepped through and to the right. President Jefferson Davis moved through the doorway. Hedges thought the man taller and thinner than he had expected. A wry smile played at the comers of his mouth and lit his eyes, exhibiting a humor at which the portrait gave no clue.
“Did you really think we would have no contingency plan in the event you evaded capture and reached me?” he asked, his eyes moving over the faces of the Union troopers and settling on the lean features of Hedges.
“We had to give it the old college try,” the Union captain replied.
Jefferson Davis inclined his head and moved to sit in the chair at the head of the table, flanked by the evil snouts of the Gatling guns. The hissing ceased, and the final traces of smoke drifted. “I’m obliged to you,” the
Rebel president said. “That incident at the theater was very dramatic. It gave me an idea.”
“I hope it’s better than yours!” Forrest rasped, close to Hedges’ ear.
“Lock up the prisoners, General,” Davis ordered, his expression thoughtful. “Yes, a fine idea” he said softly, then raised his voice. “And find out if that actor fellow Booth is still in the city.”
“What’s he mean?” Bell asked as the Union troopers were urged to turn and then marched across the fire-blackened hallway.
Hedges shrugged. “Another theater of operations. Guess it means curtains for somebody.”
The thin man and Howard Gold had their horses in the bam. Edge held a gun on the men as they saddled the animals, then all three walked their horses well clear of the house before mounting. The half-breed rode behind them, Winchester pointing between them and ready to flick to left or right at the first hint of trouble.
They rode up to the wide pass, keeping the pace slow and easy to avoid the possibility of stampeding the great herd of cattle grazing all around them. Through the pass was a rocky plateau traversed by a well-trodden trail over which countless steers had been driven. A column of rock, pointing skyward like a crooked finger, marked the start of a spur trail that swung to the north. This was the way the trio went. The ground began to slope downward, rock giving way to soil upon which grass, brash, and some trees grew. But there was never enough shade from the moonlight to allow the captives an opportunity to jump their captor.
“How many times you pull this stunt before?” Edge asked after a silence of more than three miles.
“Five,” the thin man replied, and turned in the saddle,
his face anxious. “Nobody ever got hurt. And this is the last time. We’ve got enough money now.”
“For Jefferson to give the girl the kind of life her old man did?”
The thin man nodded. “That’s right. Dave’s my nephew. Howard here is Julia’s brother. The boys who pulled the holdup are my sons. Everybody who knows Dave and Julia reckon they’re made for each other. Except for Matt Gold. He measures a man by his wealth.”
Edge spat. “Pretty soon he ought to consider me as really' something, uh?”
The thin man swallowed hard and turned to face front again. Thirty minutes later they reached the head of a valley that was almost identical to the one in which Matthew Gold’s ranch was sited. The same lush pasture with roughly the same size of herd grazing it. Even the same sort of house and outbuildings—when they were finished, At present, there was just the skeleton framework of timber uprights and cross beams, waiting for the huge pile of planks stacked to one side to be nailed into position to form walls and roofs.
The buckboard, with the horse no longer in the shafts, was parked outside a large tent, glowing with lamplight from inside. Jefferson and the girl heard the approach of the horsemen and stepped out through the flap. They looked along the trail with expectant smiles, which did not fade until the three men came within the aura of the lamplight. Then they saw the empty holsters of the thin man and Howard Gold, and realized the significance of the apparently casually held Winchester in Edge’s hands.
“What’s happened?”
Jefferson demanded as the thin man and Gold slid from their saddles. Julia gasped, her eyes wide in recognition. “You know him?” her fiance snapped.
The girl couldn’t talk around the lump in her throat.
Edge curled back his thin lips. “Guess you might say I know her pretty well,” he drawled. “From the bottom Up.”
Julia winced at the memory, made a move to reach for her rump, then stayed her hand and colored.
“He wants his money,” the thin man explained, then looked directly at Julia, his expression melancholy. “He made a large bet and he won. His due is twenty-two thousand.”
The girl gasped again. “We’ve just finished counting it. There’s only five thousand.”
The thin man’s expression did not change, as if he already knew what the take was. As stakeholder, he probably did.
“It’s to furnish the house,” Jefferson said.
Edge trained the Winchester on him. “Go into the tent and bring Out the money, lady,” he instructed coldly, hooded eyes glinting in the lamplight. “You bring out anything else, and your next trip to church will be for a funeral instead of a wedding.” -
Jefferson seemed about to countermand the order, but the killer glint warned him to remain silent. The girl whirled and ducked into the tent. It took her less than thirty seconds to put the money back in the bag and bring the bag outside. She strode purposefully toward the halfbreed and thrust the bag at him. He nestled the stock of the Winchester under his armpit as he accepted the burden and hung it over the saddle horn. Julia backed away to stand beside Jefferson.
“You guys pointed guns at me and made the mistake of not using them,” the half-breed said to the thin man and Howard Gold. “But you get to live because I’m still owed. Five grand off of twenty-two leaves seventeen.” He raked the rifle back and forth along the row of tense faces. “Be quicker if four of you work at raising the balance.”
“There’ll be six of us,” Julia corrected miserably. Edge shook his head. “Four.”
The thin man’s face was transformed into a mask of anguish. “You mean . . .”
“Somebody got hurt,” Edge confirmed. “Two bodies, matter of fact.”
“You bastard!” the thin man exploded and made to lunge forward. But both Jefferson and Gold laid restraining haiids on him.
“But I got my good points,” Edge said easily, jerking the reins to wheel the gelding. “I’m lending you seventeen grand until the next time I’m through this part of the country.”
“Big deal!” Gold spat. His tone became sardonic. “You want to tell us your name so we can make out a marker?” Edge looked over his shoulder at the quartet standing before the lighted tent amid the half-completed ranch-house. “No marker needed, feller. I know what I’m owed and who owes it me.”
“I’d like to know your name,” Julia said hoarsely. “So if I ever see it on a gravestone I can spit on it.”
Edge showed her his cold grin and thudded in his heels to lunge the gelding into a gallop. His voice drifted back across the thunder of hooves: “You folks can just call me the loan arranger!”
Death's Bounty Page 14