"It's not good enough," she said between sobs. "Nothing will ever be good enough..."
"I'm sorry."
There was nothing else Braddock could offer to comfort her. He stepped around her, left the hotel, and headed for the livery stable to pick up the buckskin.
Chapter 14
Nobody in Alpine knew Santiago Quintero, so he was able to walk openly on the streets, trailing the Texas Ranger called Braddock from the jail to the Brewster House. He lingered outside, rolling a cigarette and smoking it while he propped a shoulder against one of the posts holding up the awning over the boardwalk. He had heard Braddock tell the sheriff he was going after the deputy he had sent out of town with Henry Pollard, so it ought to be a simple matter to trail the Ranger to wherever he was going.
From time to time he turned and looked through the hotel's front window. After a while he spotted Braddock coming down the stairs. A woman sitting in the lobby got up to talk to him as he started toward the door.
Quintero frowned slightly as he watched the two of them. The woman wore a veil, and the gunman couldn't help but wonder if she was the one who had given Henry Pollard that scar on his jaw. The one he had cut up with a piece of broken glass.
Pollard had told Quintero and the others all about it when he hired them to wipe out Santa Angelina. Quintero hadn't really cared why Pollard had a grudge against the town. The money Pollard had promised them was all Quintero was interested in, and he suspected the other men felt the same way.
Pollard didn't seem to realize that, and Quintero doubted it would have stopped his boasting even if he had. Pollard seemed to regard getting his revenge as some sort of unholy quest.
He was loco as a rabid skunk, no doubt about that. But his brother was rich.
Quintero turned and sauntered along the street as Braddock emerged from the hotel. The gunman kept checking over his shoulder until he was sure that Braddock was going to the livery stable. Then he ducked into an alley and kept an eye on the place.
Things would have been a lot simpler if he and the late, unlamented Robinson had been able to kill Braddock when they ambushed him earlier. Quintero didn't think Sheriff Dearborn would have been able to stop them from getting into the jail and freeing Henry Pollard. Most of the men would still be alive, and they would be on their way to Amos Pollard's ranch with their prize by now.
But it hadn't worked out that way, and Quintero would have to make the best of the situation. He was good at that. He'd always been able to land on his feet, like a cat.
Braddock emerged from the livery stable riding a buckskin horse. He trotted past the alley where Quintero was hidden and headed north out of the settlement.
Quintero raced back to where he'd left his horse and swung up into the saddle. He was a few hundred yards behind Braddock as they rode toward the tail end of the Davis Mountains.
* * *
Amos Pollard had no way of knowing which direction the Ranger would go when he left Alpine, so all he could do was make an educated guess. Pollard was certain that Braddock would have told the deputy to take Henry to one of the surrounding county seats so he could be held in the jail there, but which one? Sanderson to the east? Marfa to the west? Fort Stockton to the northeast?
No, Pollard decided, the closest place Deputy Nation would find a good jail to lock up Henry was in Fort Davis, about 25 miles to the northwest through the Davis Mountains.
When he explained his thinking to Harper and Luttrell, the two men agreed with him. Harper nodded and said, "I reckon that's the most likely place they'd go, all right, boss. You want us to circle around town and pick up Braddock's trail when he comes along?"
"Maybe we ought to grab him and use him to trade for Henry," Luttrell suggested.
Pollard considered that idea, then shook his head.
"It's tempting, but until we know exactly where Henry and that deputy are, I don't want to risk them slipping away from us. We could try to make Braddock tell us, but I'm not sure we'd have much luck forcing a Ranger to talk."
Harper nodded and said, "They can be pretty stubborn, from what I hear."
"He'll lead us right to Henry, though, I'm sure of it," Pollard went on. He hoped he wasn't grasping at straws. That uncertainty bothered him. He had never been an tentative man, not about much of anything. Being absolutely convinced that he was right was one of the things that had allowed him to not only survive the rigors of the West Texas frontier, but also to thrive.
The three men rode wide around Alpine and reined their horses to a stop on a bluff about a mile north of town that overlooked the trail leading to Fort Davis. As they sat there, leaning forward in their saddles to ease muscles that weren't young anymore, Luttrell asked, "You don't think he's already gone by and gotten ahead of us, do you?"
"As fast as I got back to you fellas from town, that ain't likely," Harper said.
"We'll wait a spell," Pollard decided. "If Braddock doesn't come along, we can always go ahead and set out for Fort Davis. That would be a gamble—we could be wrong about where they're taking Henry—but we may have to run that risk."
Again the wait was nerve-wracking, but at least this time it didn't last as long. The three men had been waiting on the bluff for about a quarter of an hour when the sound of a horse's hooves drifted through the night to them. Pollard craned his neck to look down at the trail below them, which was visible in the light from the moon and stars.
"There he is," Pollard breathed as a man on horseback came in sight. "Can you see him well enough to be sure that's Braddock, Ray?"
"Yeah, it's him, all right," the foreman replied. "Can't really see his face that well, but that fella's the right size and shape."
They let the Ranger ride on past and then disappear around a bend in the trail. Unable to contain his impatience, Pollard started to urge his mount forward.
Harper thrust out an arm to stop him and said in a low, urgent voice, "Wait a minute, Amos. There's somebody else comin'."
Pollard hauled back on the reins and watched as another rider trotted along the Fort Davis trail. This one appeared to be a Mexican, judging by the steeple-crowned sombrero and charro jacket he wore.
"Who in blazes is that?" Luttrell asked in a whisper.
"There's no tellin'," Harper said. "Could be somebody who don't have anything to do with Henry—or Braddock."
"What are the odds of that?" Pollard snapped. "He's following Braddock, just like we planned to."
Harper shrugged and said, "You could be right. What do you want to do, Amos?"
"Whoever he is, he's trailing Braddock." Pollard jerked his head in a nod as he came to a decision. "We'll follow him."
He heeled his horse into motion again. The animal slipped a little but managed to negotiate its way down the rocky slope. Harper and Luttrell were close behind the cattleman.
When they reached the trail, they turned in the same direction Braddock and the unknown rider had gone.
"Not too close," Pollard ordered. "We don't want them to realize that they're being followed. That could ruin everything."
He realized that whatever happened in the next few hours, it would in all likelihood decide his brother's fate once and for all.
* * *
Tom Nation had been trying to figure out exactly how he was going to handle transferring Pollard from one horse to another. It would have been a lot simpler if he'd had another man here to hold a gun on the prisoner while Tom was cutting him loose and getting him mounted up again.
But he was going to have to accomplish that task by himself, and there was no easy way to go about it except one, as far as he could see.
He told himself to handle it in the dispassionate way a lawman should and not take any pleasure in what was going to happen. Deep down, though, he knew that was going to be difficult.
The stars had wheeled through the sky, the moon had risen and climbed to its height, and Tom knew the hour was well after midnight. He figured he and Pollard were at least halfway to Fort Davis, having fo
llowed a well-defined trail that twisted alongside creeks, crossed valleys, and climbed through passes in the rugged terrain.
As they came to a straight stretch of trail alongside a fast-flowing creek bordered by towering cottonwoods, Tom reined in and told Pollard, "All right, that's far enough for now."
Pollard sneered at him and asked, "What are you gonna do, string me up from one of those cottonwood branches?" He mumbled a little because his lips were swollen from the punches Tom had landed on them earlier.
"You know better than that. When you hang—and you will hang—it'll be from a gallows with a real hangman doing the honors."
Tom moved his mount closer to Pollard's and positioned himself slightly behind the killer. He slipped his gun from its holster and reversed his grip on it. He was going to wallop Pollard with the gun butt hard enough to knock him out for a few minutes, then untie him, move his saddle to the extra horse, and lash him back into place on it before he regained consciousness.
That was the plan, anyway.
"You make me sick at my stomach," Pollard said. "You go on and on about the law, but all you really want is revenge. You can't stand the thought of what I did to that gal—and I don't just mean slicing her face up."
"Keep talking," Tom said as his hand tightened around the Colt.
Maybe it would be all right to enjoy this a little after all.
He lifted his arm and brought it down, striking fast at the back of Pollard's head. Pollard ducked and twisted out of the way of the blow, then kept turning, something he shouldn't have been able to do.
As Pollard's arms flashed up, Tom saw to his horror that the prisoner's hands were free. He had no idea how Pollard had managed that and no time to ponder the question, because both of Pollard's hands locked around Tom's wrist and dragged the deputy toward him.
The horses spooked again and started running. They would have shied apart, but Pollard's hands were locked around Tom's wrist and Tom's legs were clamped around his mount, so that kept the horses together as the men atop them fought in desperate silence. Pollard jerked Tom's arm back and forth in an attempt to shake the gun free. Tom struck at Pollard with his other hand, but the blows didn't land cleanly or with any real power.
With neither man able to control his mount, the horses veered into the trees. Tom rammed a shoulder into a low-hanging branch, and the impact nearly knocked him out of the saddle. It was enough to jolt the Colt out of his fingers.
Seeing that the deputy had dropped the gun, Pollard let go of Tom's wrist and lunged at him. He got one hand on Tom's neck and used the other to sink a fist into his belly. Tom rammed the heel of his right hand under Pollard's chin and drove the prisoner's head back.
Then the horses reached the creek and splashed into it. Tom felt himself slipping from the saddle and fought to hang on, but he couldn't manage it. At the last second he kicked his feet out of the stirrups so the animal wouldn't drag him. He toppled into empty air.
Pollard still had him by the throat, though, and the fingers bore down with crushing force. As if the world wasn't spinning crazily enough, the lack of oxygen began to make Tom's head swim even more.
Pollard caught hold of Tom's shirtfront with his other hand and hauled him up. The man was incredibly strong—or else he fought with the strength of the madman he was. He lowered his head and butted Tom in the face. The blow was like an explosion that blasted Tom's wits from him completely.
He didn't actually lose consciousness, but he was so stunned that for several moments he had no idea what was going on. When awareness returned to him, he realized that he was draped face-down over the back of Pollard's horse in front of the saddle. Pollard pawed through Tom's pockets until he found what he was looking for: the folding Barlow knife that Tom always carried.
With that in his grasp, Pollard hung on to Tom with his other hand, opened the blade with his teeth, and bent over to saw at the rope around his right ankle. Tom kept the knife sharp, and it cut through the bonds in a matter of seconds.
Then Pollard gave Tom a shove that sent him sliding backward off the horse. The deputy landed in the creek and went under the water. He came up splashing and spluttering.
Tom hadn't gotten a chance to spit out all the water he had swallowed when Pollard's arm looped around his neck from behind and he felt the touch of steel against his throat.
"I'm gonna enjoy this," Pollard whispered gleefully into Tom's ear.
Chapter 15
Braddock's instincts set off alarm bells in his brain as he spotted the dark shape in the middle of the trail up ahead. He hauled back on the buckskin's reins and reached for the Winchester. As he slid the rifle out of its saddle sheath, his head swiveled smoothly back and forth. To his right was a creek with a number of trees growing on its banks. To the left lay a stretch of open ground about twenty yards wide, with a rocky, cactus-dotted slope rising on its other side.
Those trees could provide cover for a bushwhacker, and so could the boulders on top of the rise. Braddock knew that if he continued along the trail, he could be riding into a trap.
But that huddled shape lying in the trail vaguely resembled a man, so he knew he couldn't just turn and ride away.
He nudged the horse into a slow, wary walk, guiding it with his knees while he held the Winchester in both hands, ready for instant use. The rifle already had a bullet in the chamber.
The thud of the buckskin's hooves against the hard-packed trail sounded loud in the night. The shape in the trail stirred slightly, and a faint moan came from it, proving that it was human.
Braddock used his left hand to grasp the reins and bring the buckskin to a stop, then threw his right leg over the horse's back and slid from the saddle. He dropped lightly to the ground.
"Tom?" he asked quietly.
The man in the trail groaned again. Braddock walked toward him, turning a little from side to side to scan his surroundings. As far as he could tell, he and Tom Nation were the only people for miles around, but Braddock didn't believe that for a second.
He dropped to a knee beside the huddled shape. Tom Nation lay curled up on his side. When Braddock put a hand on his shoulder, he gasped and flinched.
"It's all right, Tom," Braddock told him. "It's me, G.W. Braddock."
He eased the deputy over onto his back. Light from the moon and stars revealed that Tom's face was awash with blood from a number of cuts.
Braddock knew without being told that he was looking at Henry Pollard's work.
Anger stabbed deep into the Ranger. He had known he was taking a big chance by sending Tom to Fort Davis with Pollard, but it had seemed like the only way to prevent a lynching without shedding a lot of innocent blood. It had worked out as Braddock planned, but blood had been shed anyway—Tom Nation's blood.
Braddock lifted his head and looked around. He didn't see Tom's horse or any of the other horses. That meant Henry Pollard had four mounts now. He could ride hard and fast, switching back and forth, and be dozens of miles away by the end of the new day.
It didn't matter how far Pollard went, Braddock thought. He would track him down.
But first he had to get some help for the injured deputy. He checked Tom's body and didn't find any stab wounds. Apparently loss of blood and shock from the injuries to his face had been enough to leave the deputy half-senseless. Pollard hadn't tried to kill him.
Just mutilate him.
Holding the Winchester in his right hand, Braddock used his left to lift Tom into a sitting position, then got that arm around the deputy's slender frame. He straightened from his crouch and hauled Tom up with him.
"Come on," Braddock said. "I think we're closer to Fort Davis than Alpine, so we'll go on there."
He led Tom toward the buckskin, half-carrying him. They were almost there when the horse suddenly shied, warning Braddock. He let go of Tom, causing the deputy to slump to the ground again, and tried to swing the Winchester toward the hurtling shape that came around the buckskin.
The attacker bent low, got
a shoulder under the rifle's barrel, and rammed it skyward as he crashed into Braddock. The man's weight drove the Ranger backward. He dropped the Winchester since it wasn't much good at close quarters like this and grappled with the shadowy figure as he tried to keep his balance.
Braddock lost that fight and went over backward. Henry Pollard landed on top of him and drove the air out of his lungs. Pollard dug a knee into Braddock's belly as well.
Braddock hadn't had the fight knocked out of him, though. He shot his right fist up and slammed it into Pollard's jaw. That rocked the man's head back. Braddock plastered his left hand over Pollard's face and tried to gouge his eyes out. Pollard roared in pain and fury and jerked his head away. Braddock arched his back and bucked Pollard to the side.
Braddock rolled the other way, came up on hands and knees gasping for breath. He barely had time to gulp down some air before Pollard tackled him again. The two men rolled across the trail, slugging brutally at each other.
The punches he took made red lights dance in front of Braddock's eyes, but he gave as good as he got. Pollard tried to knee him in the groin, but Braddock twisted out of the way. He slashed the edge of his right hand across Pollard's throat, making the killer gag. A second later Braddock's left fist caught Pollard on the side of the head and stunned him.
Braddock knew better than to ease up. He rammed his right fist into Pollard's belly up to the wrist, then chopped another left to his face. He felt cartilage crunch as Pollard's nose flattened under that blow. Braddock drove two more hard, swift rights into Pollard's jaw, driving his head far to the side.
Pollard slumped back on the ground, unable to move.
Breathing hard, heart slugging in his chest, Braddock heaved himself off the senseless killer. He staggered to his feet and reached down to his side to see if his Colt was still in its holster. It was, so Braddock began to slide it out.
Hangman's Knot (Outlaw Ranger Book 2) Page 8