No one returned that fire. Either he had downed the first bushwhacker, or the man had taken off for the tall and uncut.
Boots pounded on the boardwalk. Braddock swung the rifle in that direction. A familiar voice called, "Hold your fire, Ranger! It's me, Tom Nation!"
Along the street, men were cursing and shouting questions. They began to venture out cautiously to see what was going on. Braddock hoped any innocent folks on the street had gotten safely out of the line of fire.
He got to his feet but kept the wagon between him and the alley just in case.
"Over here, Deputy," he told Nation.
Still holding a Colt, Tom came up to him and asked, "Are you hit?"
"No. They came close, but not close enough. How about you?"
"They never even tried for me," Tom said. "They sure did want to kill you, though, from the looks of it."
"How did you happen to show up just at the right time like you did?" Braddock asked. He had no reason to be suspicious of Tom Nation, but caution was ingrained in him.
"I saw you come out of the Rainbow and head toward the jail. I was across the street. I was going down there, too. Figured I'd volunteer to help stand guard tonight. Then I saw those bushwhackers open up on you and knew I had to pitch in and help."
"I'm obliged to you for it, too," Braddock said. "They had me in a crossfire of sorts. Don't know if I could have gotten out of it."
"Did you get a look at either of them?"
"No. How about you?"
Tom shook his head and said, "No, all I saw was a shape running off."
A new voice called, "What the hell's going on down there?"
"That's Sheriff Dearborn," Tom said. He raised his voice. "It's Tom Nation, Sheriff, and Ranger Braddock."
Dearborn stalked up to them with a shotgun in his hands. He wore his suit coat now, as well as a bowler hat. He demanded, "Blast it, why are you two shootin' up the town?"
"A couple of men tried to ambush me, Sheriff," Braddock explained. "The deputy helped me run them off."
"You know who they were?"
"No...but it's a safe bet there are plenty of folks in town who don't want me here."
Dearborn grunted and said, "I wouldn't think most of 'em would have the guts to take a shot at a Ranger, though."
Braddock felt the same way. He said, "I don't suppose it matters. What's important is that they missed. We'd better all get down to the jail while we can."
"Yeah," Dearborn said. "A storm's fixin' to break if I ever felt one."
* * *
Santiago Quintero and the gunman called Robinson rendezvoused where they had left their horses tied in a small clump of trees a quarter of a mile outside Alpine. Quintero was mad because the bullet burn on the side of his face stung like blazes. He realized, though, how close he had come to dying tonight, so he was grateful that the man who had come to the Ranger's aid wasn't a slightly better shot.
Robinson appeared to be in worse shape. He was limping and muttering curses under his breath as he entered the shadows under the trees.
"You're hit?" Quintero asked him.
"What the hell do you think?" Robinson snapped. "One of Braddock's shots grazed my leg. I got my bandanna tied around it to stop the bleedin', but it still hurts like the dickens."
Both of them had been in the Rainbow Saloon when Braddock came in to put on his little show. In their low-voiced conversation, they had decided that no matter what they wound up doing, it would be easier if the Ranger were out of the way.
So as soon as Braddock left, they had slipped out a side door and split up, hurrying to get in position to ambush him. If the light had been a little better...if Braddock hadn't been so lucky...if that other son of a bitch hadn't come along and taken cards in the game...the Ranger would be dead now.
But there was no point in thinking about what might have been, Quintero knew. A smart man dealt with the world the way it really was, not how he wished it could be.
Robinson leaned against a tree trunk to ease his painful leg and asked, "You still think there'll be a lynch mob tonight, after Braddock warned folks like that?"
"I do," Quintero said. "Some hombres will back out because they do not want to face a Ranger, but there will be enough who are drunk and stubborn and proud. That man Braddock knocked down, he'll want revenge. He'll be one of the ringleaders. My gut says it is so."
"Yeah, I think you're right. What do we do now?"
Quintero thought it over for a moment, then asked, "Can you ride?"
"Hell, yes, I can ride," Robinson answered without hesitation. "I've been shot worse than this and rode all day."
"Then go back to the canyon. Get your leg patched up. Then bring all the men back here and watch for my signal to attack the jail."
"What's that gonna be?"
Quintero thought again, then said, "I saw a church with a tall bell tower. I'll take a lantern up there and light it, then swing it back and forth three times. When you see that, you'll know to bring in the men. I'll be waiting for you at the back of the jail. The Ranger and the sheriff and the rest of the lawmen will be at the front, trying to keep out the mob. They won't know we're there until it's too late."
Despite the pain of his injury, Robinson grinned, his prominent teeth visible in the shadows.
"And then Pollard's brother makes us all rich men," he said, "or we'll string up the little bastard ourselves!"
Chapter 9
Sitting stiff and straight in the saddle, Amos Pollard rode in the forefront of the group of men headed toward Alpine. Raymond Harper was a little behind and to his right; Bert Luttrell occupied the same position to the left.
Behind them came eighteen more riders, the bulk of the crew from the Triangle P. Pollard had left his cook, wrangler, and blacksmith behind, along with three of the other hands. They were older, somewhat stove up, but all good men. If any trouble came up, they would be able to deal with it.
Most of the hands had been with Pollard long enough that he could sense their mood. He knew that misgivings ran deep in some of them. Over the years they had been involved in plenty of minor scrapes with the law, but they didn't like the idea of possibly having to shoot it out with the sheriff, his deputies—and a Texas Ranger.
Others, though, were ready, even eager, for trouble. For the chance to cut loose their wolf and show that Triangle P wasn't to be messed with.
But whether they were apprehensive or raring to go, more than likely they all wished they were setting out on a more worthwhile mission than the rescue of such a sorry specimen as Henry Pollard. Amos knew that, and the knowledge gnawed at his guts like a coffin worm.
The lights of Alpine were visible in the distance. Harper edged his horse forward until he was even with Pollard and said, "What's the plan when we get there, Amos?"
Pollard had always been a decisive man, not the sort to ask advice from anyone. But with uncertainty strong in him tonight, he said, "Tell me, Ray...do you think there's any chance in hell John Dearborn would let Henry go if I asked him to?"
Harper blew out a breath and said, "The kid's responsible for a bunch of people dyin' and a whole settlement bein' burned to the ground. It ain't like the scrapes he got into before. It ain't even like the time he...did what he did to the Castle girl. How can Dearborn let him go?"
"Dearborn's a coward."
"He's been out here damn near as long as you have, Amos. He's fought his share of Apaches and rustlers and Mexican bandidos, just like you."
"That was twenty years ago," Pollard said harshly. "He's gotten old and soft. He realizes he doesn't have all that many years left, and he doesn't want to lose them. That's why he crawls into a gin bottle every chance he gets. It helps him forget that every time he lays his head on the pillow at night, he's one day closer to the grave."
Harper didn't say anything for a long moment, then, "You're probably right about that, but I still say he won't back down. Besides, he's got that Ranger there to keep his backbone a mite stiffer. He's got hi
s regular deputies and some extra men he took on, and that kid lawman from Santa Angelina who captured Henry is still around, too. If you ride up and tell Dearborn to turn Henry loose, he'll refuse, and then he'll put up a fight when you go to take the boy out."
"Then we'll do like I said. We'll wait until the mob comes up to the front of the jail, and while Dearborn's dealing with them we'll go in the back. There'll probably be just a couple of men on the rear door. They won't stop us."
"And men on the stairs and up in the cell block, too," Harper warned.
"They'll get out of our way."
"And if they don't?"
"Then God help them."
"Amos...by the time this is over...the law's liable to be after you, too. No offense, but are you willin' to give up everything you got, just to...well..."
"To save my brother? My no-good brother who's got the blood of dozens of innocent people on his hands?"
"Like it or not, those are the facts," Harper said.
"I'm getting Henry out of there, and that's the end of it," Pollard said. "If you don't like it, Ray, I won't hold it against you if you turn back."
Harper snorted disgustedly and said, "Nobody's turnin' back. We're Triangle P, and we're in this to the hilt."
* * *
The jail was mostly dark when Braddock got there with Dearborn and Tom Nation. The first thing he said was, "You need to get some light on the grounds so you can see what you're shooting at, Sheriff, if it comes to that."
"If we're shooting, it'll be at citizens," Dearborn said.
"If they try to take a prisoner out of jail, they're lawbreakers."
"Yeah, that's what I keep tellin' myself. I keep tryin' to believe it, too." Dearborn sighed. "But you're right. I'll get some lanterns out here."
"Around back, too."
The sheriff frowned and said, "Seems to me like a lynch mob would come to the front door."
"Unless the mob was just a distraction."
Dearborn looked at Braddock for a moment and then nodded. He said, "I should've thought of that myself. Guess I'm gettin' too old for this job."
Braddock didn't say anything about that. Instead he asked, "Do you still have riflemen on the roof?"
"Yeah, a couple."
"Put two more men up there. Have each one cover a side."
"All right." If Dearborn objected to a Texas Ranger coming in and taking over the defense of the jail, he didn't show it. He went on, "I've got six men armed with pistols and shotguns inside the jail tonight."
"Regular deputies?"
"Some of them are. Others are specials I hired until after the trial."
"All of them are from here in town?"
"That's right," Dearborn said.
Braddock didn't say anything, but his brain was working quickly. He didn't like the way things were adding up. If a mob stormed the jail, the guards would be asked to shoot at men who were friends and neighbors, maybe even relatives. All to protect a man who didn't deserve anything except a guilty verdict and a rope. Braddock had seen for himself just how loco Henry Pollard was. There was no one in Alpine tonight who deserved to die protecting the likes of Pollard.
And yet the law demanded it. Things had to be done in a certain way in order to be right. Braddock had always believed that.
At least until he'd pinned on a badge he no longer had a right to wear...
He forced that thought out of his mind. His own actions didn't matter tonight. What was important was getting through this with the smallest loss of life possible.
Dearborn was looking intently at him. The sheriff said, "You're thinking that my men won't fight, aren't you?"
Dearborn might be past his prime, but he wasn't stupid. Braddock said, "If you were a special deputy, or even a regular one, would you want to gun down your best friend to protect Pollard?"
"No, but they swore an oath—"
"A lot of men swear oaths. They doesn't always mean much when your finger's on the trigger and you're looking over a gun barrel."
"Well, then, what the hell do we do?" Dearborn demanded in exasperation.
It seemed to Braddock there was only one answer, and it depended on someone else.
He turned his head to look at Tom Nation and wondered just how much he could ask the young deputy to do.
* * *
Quintero opened the door of the First Methodist Church and went inside. His footsteps echoed slightly in the sanctuary. A couple of lights mounted on the wall gave off dim light. The church appeared to be empty.
That was good. Quintero might be a cold-blooded killer, but he didn't like the idea of slaying a man of God. He wouldn't even want to knock out such a man and tie him up.
The gunman carried a lantern he had stolen off someone's back porch. He had swung it back and forth to check for the slosh of fuel and knew it had enough oil in it for his purpose. He looked around, found a door to a small room with a narrow ladder in it that led up to the bell tower.
He was glad the church had a tower like this, instead of a steeple. That wouldn't have done him any good. He hung the lantern's bail over the barrel of the Winchester he also carried, then started up the ladder, a bit awkwardly because of his burden.
A trapdoor at the top swung up and let him climb out onto a narrow platform around the big bell itself. Quintero lowered the trapdoor and set the lantern on it. Then he had a look around.
The view was good from up here. He could see practically the entire town. The front of the jail was visible from where he was, and it sprang into sharp relief when he took a telescope from the pocket of his charro jacket, extended it, and squinted through its lens. The telescope was army issue, taken off a dead cavalry officer a couple of years earlier, and worked well.
Lanterns hung from the posts that held up the roof over the small landing at the top of the jail's entrance stairs. More lanterns had been set out here and there so that the area in front of the jail was, if not bright as day, at least bright enough for the men inside the building to draw a bead on the members of any lynch mob.
The front door was closed and the landing was empty. The jail's defenders had already forted up inside.
Quintero raised the spyglass and focused on the roof. A smart sheriff would have riflemen posted up there, and sure enough, even though the glow from the lanterns on the ground didn't reach the roof, Quintero spotted starlight winking off rifle barrels. He couldn't tell how many men were on the roof, but there were several, for sure.
From here, with his own Winchester, he could pick them off before they knew how or why they were dying.
Quintero lowered the telescope and turned his attention to the brightly lit saloons. Even from up here, he could hear the racket coming from them, a low rumble that sounded angry and menacing. Now and then louder shouts could be heard, followed by cheers.
The rotgut was flowing like a river tonight, Quintero thought with a tight smile. The saloons were full of men guzzling down that liquid courage. When they had braced themselves with enough of it, when they had worked themselves into a frenzy of vengeance directed at Henry Pollard, they would pour out into the night and head for the jail.
And it appeared that was going to happen sooner rather than later, Quintero saw. A knot of men appeared at the entrance of one of the saloons and erupted into the street like a boil being lanced. Matches flared to life and were held to kerosene-soaked torches. Flames shot up, casting a hellish glare along the street. More and more men came out to join the first ones. In a matter of minutes, a mob of at least fifty men had formed, and it continued to grow as they started toward the jail.
Quintero picked up the lantern he had brought into the bell tower, fished a match of his own from his pocket, and lit it with a snap of his fingernail. He held the flame to the lantern's wick, and when it was burning well, he lowered the glass chimney, took hold of the bail, and held out the lantern so Robinson and the other men would be able to see it from their hiding place outside of town. He swung the light back and forth three t
imes, then blew out the flame, set the lantern down, and picked up the rifle from where he had leaned it against the low wall around the outside of the tower.
Now all he had to do was wait for the killing to start.
Chapter 10
Braddock and Dearborn were sitting in the sheriff's office with the lamps unlit when one of the deputies who been posted outside appeared in the open doorway and said, "They're comin', Sheriff."
Braddock rose from the chair where he'd been leaned back in an apparently casual pose with his right ankle propped on his left knee. His hat was pushed to the back of his head. He pulled it down now so the brim was square with his face. He picked up the shotgun he had set on the sheriff's desk. Dearborn picked up his Greener as well.
The sheriff sighed and said, "Reckon there's no stoppin' it now."
"We won't know that until we try," Braddock said.
They followed the deputy to the jail's front door. Another man stood there, tense in the light that came through the windows from outside. He asked, "What do you want us to do, Sheriff?"
"Be ready at the windows," Dearborn said. "Shoot if you have to—but nobody in here fires the first shot. You understand that?"
Both guards nodded. Their hands shifted on the shotguns they held, changing from one grip to another and then back again.
Braddock leaned over slightly to peer out a window at the mob approaching the jail along the side of the darkened courthouse. A number of them carried torches, which wasn't very smart of them. The added light just made them easier targets.
Something about a mob, though, demanded torches. It was in the nature of the beast.
Based on the clothes they wore, some of the men were townies while others were cowboys from the spreads in the area. All of them wore angry, determined expressions. Some didn't appear to be too steady on their feet. Those would be the ones who'd imbibed a little too much liquid courage.
Braddock spotted the cowhide vest of the man he'd laid out earlier in the Rainbow Saloon. The man was in the front rank of the mob. Braddock pointed him out to Dearborn, asking the sheriff, "Who's that fella in the black and white vest?"
Hangman's Knot (Outlaw Ranger Book 2) Page 5