“I see your point,” Burnett said, making a sour face as his eyes went once more to the dead girl. “But I gotta say that, for me, leaving alive any of the varmints responsible for this ain’t exactly the first thing that comes to mind.”
Russell’s gaze followed that of Burnett. In a somewhat thickened voice, he said, “Whatever else we do, we surely are going to take time to give this poor unfortunate girl a decent burial . . . aren’t we?”
“You’re damn right we are,” Luke was quick to say, his own voice carrying a trace of huskiness. “Lord knows she suffered enough when she was alive. Her remains at least deserve to find some peace and not be left as pickings for the scavengers.”
Chapter 32
The dusting of snow that greeted them when they woke after their third night’s camp seemed to send a ripple of urgency through all of the Legion raiders who were part of Sam Kelson’s group. None more so than Kelson himself. From the minute he crawled out of his bedroll, he began tromping throughout the campsite, snarling and barking orders more harshly than ever before. During the preparation and consumption of a hurry-up breakfast he was particularly relentless.
“Get your asses in gear. Eat up and get mounted so we can be on our way! This snow won’t last, but I don’t intend to spend one more cold night out here where we risk getting another taste of it. I mean to make the warmth and comfort of our hideout by this afternoon and I’ll burn the ass of anybody who lags!”
Hearing this sent a deep, disheartening pang through Millie Burnett. Her plan to work her wiles on Ben Craddock, to encourage him into a confrontation with Kelson in order to create a chance for her to escape, had barely gotten underway during the late hours of the previous day.
In that time, she’d snuggled closer against Craddock after finally making up her mind to proceed with the bold, desperate plan. And she’d also taken the chance to murmur a few remarks aimed at getting him thinking in the right direction.
“I know you can see the way Kelson looks at me. I know you’re bothered by it, just like I am. When we get to this mysterious hideout, I don’t think I’ll be safe from him. And I don’t think he’s the kind of man a woman survives—not after he’s done with her . . .”
“I want to hate you for getting me into this. But, strangely, in spite of that, I feel safer when you’re around. Not like him . . .”
“When Kelson decides to take me, and we both know that time is coming, he won’t let anybody stand in his way. If he thinks I mean anything to you, you may be at risk from him as well . . .”
Craddock hadn’t responded to any of it in the slightest—not with words—but Millie could tell that his response to her snuggling tighter against him was certainly welcoming. And his lack of a verbal response, she told herself, was also a lack of disputing any of the things she’d said.
Trouble was, with only half a day left before they reached the badlands hideout, there might not be time left to influence Craddock enough to actually make a difference, if she ever realistically had a chance to do so in the first place.
When they made it to the hideout, Millie felt with a sinking certainty, the treatment of her and the other women was going to change drastically. And not for the better.
* * *
“Okay, then. Maybe we’re not in as bad a shape as I feared.” Lucas Grogan reined in his horse on the rounded crest of a hill and gazed out ahead. Some miles in the distance, their tan and brown colors showing through the light blanket of snow beginning to melt under the touch of the rising sun, the lumpy, ragged, irregular outline of the Pawnee Badlands could be seen.
Pulling up beside him, Turkey Grimes said, “Yup. There they be.”
“We’re still a long way off, though. Not likely to make it all the way to the hideout before another nightfall,” Grogan calculated, “but we’ll be there early tomorrow. Even if Sam makes it in ahead of us, it shouldn’t be by much. I don’t think he’ll be too out of sorts over that.”
“You want to worry about somebody bein’ out of sorts,” Rooster Grimes said, coming up alongside his cousin, “you don’t have to look no farther than me. You was so hell-bent on leavin’ behind our little sweetie, and now you’re sayin’ we’ll be lookin’ at another cold night out here when we could have kept her around for some more belly warmin’. What kind of crap is that, Grogan?”
“It is what it is,” he snapped. “Get over that homely damn sweetie of yours, Rooster. For Christ’s sake. In addition to being uglier than a mud fence, she was already half dead from you knocking her around. Probably wouldn’t have lasted another night anyway.”
“You don’t know that. She was still breathin’ when you planted that bullet in her head.”
“Just barely. I did her a favor. And us, too, once we got sober enough to take a good look at what we were dragging along. You heard Kelson say they’ll be bringing some fresh women from that town they set out to rob. So we’ll all have some more belly warmers to share soon enough.” Grogan glared at Rooster. “And if you’d keep your heavy paws from hammering ’em black and blue every time you take a turn, they might even stay worth looking at.”
“I treat women the way it suits me, not nobody else,” Rooster said. “And they like it just fine, too.”
“Come on. Knock it off, the both of you,” Turkey said. “I’m about as sick of listenin’ to you two bicker as you are of each other. Especially since we guzzled down all our whiskey. That’s the kind of belly warmin’ I miss. But we ain’t gonna find none, and no women, either, nor anything else of much comfort sittin’ here bellyachin’ about it. Let’s just keep movin’ on.”
With a final exchange of hard looks, the other two acquiesced silently to his words. Grogan heeled his horse forward, taking the lead once again, and the two cousins fell in behind.
The air was still, motionless, warming slowly in the same sunlight that was chasing away the coating of snow on the ground. In addition to rising and falling in a series of sharper-crested hills, the terrain was growing steadily rockier. Patches of stubbled grass appeared farther apart and smaller in size. The hills were frequently cut by spinelike rock outcrops, none particularly high, running in a haphazard pattern of angles. It was as if Mother Nature had been practicing on that stretch of ground before really hitting her stride with the dizzying jumble of rock formations, twisting gullies, ragged cliffs, and blind canyons yet to come in the barren heart of the badlands.
* * *
Luke lowered his binoculars and held them out to Tom Burnett. “Have a look for yourself. If there was any doubt this bunch is on its way to join up with the ones who hit your town, I’d say those red bandannas on their sleeves pretty much settles it.”
Burnett took the glasses and swung them to his eyes. It took him only a second to focus before he exclaimed, “It’s Legion men wearing those red arm markers as bold as can be.”
“Since they’re practically on Legion home ground, wearing the red will get them welcomed by any other raiders they might run into and will cause anybody else to steer plenty clear.”
“Anybody but us,” Russell amended as he took the glasses for a look of his own. “Steering clear of that pack of vermin is the last thing we intend to do. Right?”
“That’s the general idea, kid,” agreed Luke.
“So how do you suggest we go about it?” Burnett wanted to know. “Ride straight at ’em and run the bastards down?”
A corner of Luke’s mouth lifted briefly. “That might be a way to go about it,” he allowed, “but it likely wouldn’t give us our best chance for taking one of them alive. And if we break into a running shoot-out with them, all that gunfire could draw the attention of other Legion men possibly in the vicinity. Be best to get the drop on them suddenlike, put them under our guns with the least amount of trigger-pulling.”
“An ambush, then,” Russell said. “We circle around and ahead of them,” he added eagerly, “then lay in wait behind one of those rocky spines they’re bound to pass by. When the time is right, we spri
ng out and have them under our guns.”
Luke’s mouth curved in a full grin. “Not bad. Sounds like a pretty slick plan to me, kid. What do you think, Marshal?”
Twisting his own mouth ruefully, Burnett said, “Don’t know how much spring I got left in these weary old bones. But yeah, it sounds pretty good to me, too.”
Chapter 33
It took more than an hour for Luke and the others to circle ahead of the pack train and get in position for their ambush. The snow was nearly all gone by then, but the climbing sun still had not warmed the air appreciably.
Their maneuvering took them closer to the outer fringes of the badlands and the terrain had grown accordingly more rugged. The spine of rock they chose for setting their trap was right on course for the way their prey was heading. It was fairly flat on the side the men and horses would be passing close to, about fifteen feet high at its tallest middle point, and angled almost perfectly toward the northwest.
Armed with a shotgun, Burnett hid at ground level on the far end of the spine. Luke was up in the rocks, slightly off center in a ragged notch about a dozen feet high. Also at ground level but opposite Burnett’s end, Russell would emerge after the men and horses had gone by his spot. Once the posse members made their presence known, the Legion men would be blocked three ways from attempting to flee. And if they tried to make a fight of it, they’d be caught in a cross fire from above and both ends.
The outlaws proceeded exactly as anticipated, but for those awaiting them, it seemed as if they moved with agonizing slowness over the final stretch.
At last, when they were strung out along the spine with the leader near Burnett’s spot, the marshal rose up out of where he’d been concealed and announced in a loud voice over the twin muzzles of his shotgun, “Hold it right there, you polecats! You’re covered seven ways from Sunday. Do anything but freeze with your hands empty and in plain sight, you’ll be cut to ribbons.”
All horses came to an abrupt halt and the riders went rigid in their saddles, hands held in plain sight but poised only slightly above waist height.
From his elevated position, Luke jacked a cartridge into the chamber of his Winchester, the action and the sound meant to announce his presence and to back up Burnett’s words. At the rear of the column, Russell moved up quietly with his Henry rifle held at the ready.
The heavyset leader’s eyes, widened and somewhat alarmed, darted around for several seconds. Then they came back to rest on Burnett and the alarm turned to shrewdness. “Mister, if this is a robbery, you are making the biggest mistake of your life . . . a life that ain’t going to play out very long if you continue with this.”
“Seems to me,” Burnett replied, “you’re the one with his life on a short fuse, no longer than the distance the triggers on this gut shredder need to travel for me to blast you to hell.”
“Yeah, it appears you could do that before I was able to do anything to stop you,” the man admitted, his voice surprisingly calm. “But that still wouldn’t improve your situation any. In fact, it would only worsen it. You see, I didn’t say your life would be shortened by me.”
Burnett showed his teeth in a wolf’s smile. “That’s right. Not by you, not by one of those pieces of trash riding behind you, either.”
“You damn fool,” the outlaw snarled. “Don’t you see these red bandannas on our sleeves? Don’t you know what that means?”
“Yeah, I know exactly what it means.” Burnett’s words came out sounding like they were dragged across sandpaper. “It means you three piles of dog crap ride for the Legion of Fire. Is that supposed to impress or scare me? If you think that, you couldn’t be more wrong. All it does is make me want to pull these triggers even more.”
“Triggers don’t get pulled by talk, mister,” one of the other men spoke up. “You figurin’ to just rob us or to kill us in the bargain? If it’s both, then what’ve we got to lose by makin’ a fight of it?”
“Your worthless damn lives, that’s what,” Luke said from directly above him. “But if any one of you has a morsel of a brain left in his empty skull, maybe—just maybe—there’s a bargain we could strike to allow you to hang on a little longer to your miserable existence.”
“We only bargain in lead,” the third desperado said from farther back in line. “So what are we waitin’ for? Let’s get to tradin’ some!”
“I’m warning you,” Russell said, moving up closer behind him. “You raise that rifle one inch, I’ll blow the back of your head off.”
Unfortunately, in making his threat Russell had moved up foolishly close, just off the man’s right flank. The outlaw made no attempt to raise the Winchester rifle he had resting directly in front of him, balanced across the pommel of his saddle. All he had to do was ram it suddenly backward and drive the buttstock as hard as he could straight into the face of the man who’d moved so obligingly close.
The impact of the vicious blow made an ugly sound as the buttstock slammed into the side of Russell’s face. The young man was immediately knocked cold, his knees buckling as his upper body pitched backward. He collapsed heavily. The Henry rifle he’d been brandishing fell, too, dropped from nerveless fingers. It hit the ground in a kind of irony with its butt end striking first. The jolt caused the weapon to discharge skyward.
The sudden roar of the Henry sent the rest of the scene into instant turmoil. Horses screamed and reared up. Men spat curses.
The first outlaw to pay the price was the leader. He never had a chance. His eyes said he knew it, but he nevertheless made a grab for the gun holstered on his right hip. His hand hadn’t dropped more than six inches before both barrels of Burnett’s shotgun hurled smoke and flame. The double load lifted the leader out of his saddle and flung him backward and to one side, where he smashed against the flat face of the rock spine. He bounced off and dropped to the ground in a bloody heap, leaving a smeared red stain on the rocks.
The man next in line made no try for a gun as he attempted to bolt, jerking the head of his horse sharply to one side and sinking spurs deep, hoping to escape amidst the chaos of powder smoke and trampling horses. Just as his horse was beginning its lunge away from the rocks, Luke’s Winchester spoke from a dozen feet above. The bullet drilled down through the top of the man’s shoulder, tipping him out of his saddle and depositing him into a tumbling, rolling mass as his horse pounded away.
That left the third man. With his rifle very much raised, he snapped a pair of shots up toward Luke. They went high yet passed close enough to force the bounty hunter to duck back down into his ragged notch. The man got off a shot at Burnett but it, too, sailed high.
Bellowing, “Y’all gotta die!,” the bearded outlaw slammed his heels into the sides of his horse and sent the animal charging forward, straight for Burnett. He gripped the reins in his left hand while swinging the Winchester wildly in his right, slapping it against the rump of his mount and forcing it to barge into the other wheeling, bucking horses in their way.
Burnett stood his ground. He tossed aside the spent shotgun, pulled the Colt from his holster, and extended his right arm. At the same time, up in the rocks, Luke thrust once more into view. He slammed his Winchester to his shoulder and swung its sights, tracking the charging outlaw.
Simultaneously, marshal and bounty hunter opened fire. Their bullets riddled the man’s torso, raising puffs of dust from his clothing. The bearded outlaw jerked with each impact, tipping backward in the saddle until his shoulders and the back of his head were flopping loosely on the running horse’s rump. He finally slid off on one side and hit the ground with thin arcs of blood still pumping from the wounds as his body skidded to a halt.
Chapter 34
“When I first met you a few days back,” Luke said, “you were a fairly good-looking young fella. Not so good-looking, though, that you can afford to go around letting your face and head collide with hard objects. In addition to what it’s apt to do to your looks, you’re bound to be getting your brains scrambled some each time, too.”
“Thanks for the medical diagnosis,” Russell replied, favoring the left side of his mouth. Then he added sarcastically, “I never would have thought any of that if you hadn’t pointed it out.”
Luke flashed a brief grin and spread his hands. “Hey, I’m no Doc Whitney. Just trying to offer some helpful observations based on my own experience. As you can see, I’ve managed to hang on to my dashing good looks.”
Russell lay stretched out on a saddle blanket with another rolled blanket serving as a pillow to prop up his head. Luke knelt next to him. They were still alongside the spine of rock where they’d confronted the Legion men, not far from the spot where Russell had fallen.
An hour had passed since the shooting ended. During that time, Luke had ridden out to once again round up the scattered horses. It hadn’t taken very long, since none of them, especially the pack animals, had gone very far. Still, it was enough of a chore for him to remark to Burnett, “If I’d wanted to spend this much time wrangling horses instead of outlaws, I’d have signed up to be a ranch hand a long time ago.”
As for the outlaws, two of the men they’d waylaid, Grogan and Rooster, were dead. Turkey, who’d identified himself as well as the other two, had survived his bullet wound. The slug had shattered several bones in the ball of his right shoulder, rendering that arm useless and leaving him in a lot of pain. But he was still sucking air and spouting curses at his attackers.
At least he had been for a while. He was currently passed out, lying on a blanket not too far from Russell’s. Luke and Burnett had tended his wound well enough to stop the bleeding and wrap the arm in a sling. They’d also cuffed his wrists and put him in leg irons, much to his wailing objections before he finally ran out of steam. His two comrades, who made no complaints whatsoever about their treatment, had been piled together close to the rocks and hastily covered over with loose rubble—better accommodations than they deserved.
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