The Vengeance Seeker 2

by Will C. Knott

  Then Wolf turned to Lassiter, his right hand dropping to his Colt’s grip. But Lassiter was out of it. Pike had managed to draw his own huge iron and now held it against the foreman’s stomach. Wolf looked back down at the kid sprawled in the sawdust.

  The kid was staring up at Wolf with tears of rage gleaming in the corners of his eyes.

  Lassiter spoke then, his voice trembling with fury. “What makes you two think you’re going to be able to walk out of here alive?”

  Wolf didn’t answer. He looked around and saw that every Snake Bar rider had risen to his feet. In a moment they would be clawing for their weapons. The electric silence hung over them like a summer storm cloud about to split with lightning.

  “Hold it fellers! Just hold it right there!”

  Wolf turned. It was Slade Hamner, a sawed-off ten-gauge in his hands.

  “First one makes a move to send lead gets the full load. Now just think that over, gents. I don’t want my place shot up none. You all know me. You know what I got tied up in The Palace. Besides, these two fellows came in here for a quiet drink. It was Lassiter and the kid who came in to roust them. So just settle down—or get out!”

  The tension broke with his words. The kid got slowly to his feet. Lassiter spun without a word and headed from the place, the Snake Bar riders following him out. The kid stood for a moment looking at Wolf. Then he started to say something.

  But before he could get the words out, Wolf laughed easily in his face. “I know,” Wolf said. “I know. You won’t forget this. Fine. I won’t either. I’ve enjoyed myself very much.”

  The kid closed his eyes for a moment, opened them and then nodded curtly at Wolf and went searching for his two guns. Ready hands picked them up off the floor and handed them to him. Without a glance back at Wolf the kid pocketed them and left the saloon.

  As the batwings swung shut behind the kid, Pike slowly holstered his weapon and looked at Wolf. “I’d say you’ve made yourself one fine enemy there.”

  The mirth was gone from Wolf’s face. Grimly, he nodded. “Sometimes a man’s hate clouds his thinking. It wouldn’t do for me to let that killer think any too clearly.” Wolf turned to Slade. The owner of The Palace was in the act of placing his shotgun back down behind the bar. “Thank you, Slade.”

  Slade straightened and looked at Wolf coldly. “Don’t thank me, mister. I did that to save tearing up my place—like I said. But I’m still loyal to the Snake Bar—and always will be. My advice to you both is to get out of these parts and stay out. They ain’t likely to be any too healthy for either of you from here on in.”

  “We’re staying, Slade,” said Pike emphatically. “The son of a bitch ain’t been born that can make me run from what’s mine. You ought to know me better than that.”

  Slade smiled thinly. “I guess I do at that, Pike.”

  Pike looked at Wolf. “Come on, Wolf. Before that stage gets in, I want to go see Gibson and Obermeyer. I want to hear them tell me to my face that Blackmann owns them!”

  Wolf smiled, slapped enough coin down on the bar to pay for their drinks, and followed Pike from the place.

  Gordon Gibson was in his office to the rear of the store while his two clerks were busy up front handling the customers. He looked up quizzically from his ledger as Pike, followed by Wolf, stormed into the small cubicle.

  The moment Gibson saw who it was, his face hardened into a resolve—an unpleasant resolve. He raised his hand to hold off Pike’s words.

  “I know what you’re going to say, Pike,” he said hastily. “But you’ve got to see my side of it.”

  “Your side of it!” Pike cried. “You’re here to do business with whoever walks in that door—not to be bullied by Blackmann!”

  “Quite so,” the man said, sighing wearily.

  He got to his feet then, came around the desk, and sat down on the corner of it. He was a slight, trim individual who was dressed immaculately in the latest fashion: a narrow-waisted suit coat, large lapels and narrow, tapered slacks. His spats were spotless. Behind him, Wolf noted, hanging on a clothes tree standing in a corner was a beautiful pair of matching single-action Frontier Model .45’s, their grips fitted with walrus ivory. From the way they and their holsters were kept, Wolf knew that Gibson more than likely knew how to use them.

  Wolf looked back to the shrewd owner of GIBSON’S HARDWARE. “Just what is your side of it, Gibson?” he asked.

  “And who might you be?” the slim man snapped.

  “Wolf Caulder.”

  “You’re the hired gun Pike brought in.”

  “I suppose you do have to do whatever Blackmann tells you, but do you think you have to believe everything he says too?”

  Gibson’s blue eyes went cold. He looked quickly to Pike. “I don’t have to explain to either of you. Blackmann buys everything he needs from this store. His business alone is worth more than all the rest of you nickel and dime ranchers put together. It’s really very simple, Pike. I know which side my bread is buttered on. Long after you and the rest have high-tailed it out of here, Snake Bar will still be here, sending its orders in every week.”

  “It’s as simple as that, is it?” Pike asked.

  “Dollars and cents, Pike. Dollars and cents. And I’ll be expecting some payment soon on the credit I’ve already extended Double B.”

  With a quick glance at Wolf, Pike spun about and left the office. “You’ll get it,” he flung over his shoulder.

  OBERMEYER’S HARDWARE AND LEATHER SUPPLIES was next to the sheriff’s office on Snake Valley Road around the block from the Gibson store. As Wolf entered behind Pike, he saw a tall, strikingly beautiful blonde waiting on a dust-laden customer who’d obviously just dismounted after a long ride. The fellow was looking at a harness and had the smell of cow manure and grass silage about him.

  What impressed Wolf as he passed the pair of them was the unfailing courtesy of the girl as she allowed the farmer to pick through the harnesses.

  A tall, white-haired man with impressive shoulders and keen dark eyes was waiting for Pike behind the counter. He had on a thick denim apron and a pencil stuck behind his ear. Broad yellow braces held his pants up. He smiled as Pike approached, revealing a single gold tooth among all the ivory.

  “How are you, Pike?” he wanted to know. At once Wolf caught the accent. The man was German.

  “That depends,” said Pike. “I just heard that Blackmann’s been in here telling you who you could and who you couldn’t do business with.”

  Obermeyer kept his smile grimly and nodded. “Yes, it is so what you have heard. I am sorry, my friend. There is nothing I can do about it.”

  Pike’s shoulders slumped. It was obvious he had hoped for better than this from a man he seemed to like and respect and who felt the same way about him. But Blackmann’s power was too great, it seemed—his shadow too long.

  Obermeyer shook his head sadly. “Have you not heard? The Donnellys have already gone. Soon, I will have no customers left. How can I fight the only rancher who will still be here when all the others, they have gone? I am sorry, Pike.” The man shrugged his huge shoulders. “But what can I do?”

  “Fight!” Pike said. “That’s what I’m going to do! My daughter Betsy’s arriving on the noon stage. She’s going to help me take care of Ben. We’re staying, Ross. But we’ll need supplies!”

  Again the big fellow shrugged. Wolf was aware then of the blonde girl. She had finished with her customer and was now standing alongside Wolf, listening.

  “Father ...” she said. “Isn’t there anything ...?”

  “No, Helen,” he said decisively. “I am sorry. But that is the way it must be. This man Blackmann is too strong for me—for any of us—to fight.” He looked with suddenly gentle eyes at Pike. “You will find that out soon, Pike—if you haven’t already.”

  BeforePike could reply, Ben burst into the store. “Pike!” he cried. “The stage! It’s coming in!”

  Pike turned to go. “All right, Ross. But I’m not leaving these p
arts—and I’m not leaving the Double B. My son is buried on Double B land. If Blackmann wants that valley, he’ll have to bury me in it, alongside my son.”

  Pike turned then and hurried out of the store after Ben. Wolf paused and looked back at Obermeyer and his daughter. “He’s a brave man, Pike is. I got the impression that both of you were equally brave. Could be I was wrong. Could be Blackmann’s got everybody around here buffaloed—everybody but Pike.”

  Wolf turned then and left the two of them standing there, avoiding each other’s eyes.

  Wolf reached the hotel porch just before the coach rolled in, the driver’s right foot propped against the brake lever, the brake shoes squealing so loudly they drowned out the thunder of the horse’s hooves. The high rooster tail of dust following behind subsided swiftly, settling on the hats and clothes of all those who had left the hotel and nearby bars to watch.

  Abe Forbush left his livery next door to the hotel and hurried with two stock tenders out to the horses and began taking the tired team out of the traces. The door of the coach opened and a neat but dusty bowler-hatted drummer stepped down, followed by a thin, wizened old woman whose bright eyes picked out her welcoming kinfolk the instant her head cleared the doorway.

  Pike, standing beside Wolf, began to move nervously forward—and then a young, red-headed girl with round cheeks and startlingly blue eyes poked her head out, one hand held up to her head to hold her bonnet on. One look was all Wolf needed. It was Pike’s daughter, all right.

  “Betsy!” the old man cried, hurrying forward with Ben to help her down.

  She smiled happily, her face showing the enormous relief she felt at seeing this arduous journey finally completed. And then Pike was helping her down, there was much happy confusion, Wolf was aware he had been introduced but that she had not caught his name; he pulled back, asked which luggage was hers, and then proceeded to lift the various pieces of luggage down from the top of the coach.

  They had ridden into Willow Bend that morning in the buckboard, hitching the team to the rail in front of the hotel. Wolf and Ben were so busy loading the buckboard with Betsy’s things, they didn’t notice at first the ominous silence that settled around them. Wolf was lifting the last piece of luggage—a large black trunk—up onto the buckboard when he felt Ben tapping him nervously on the shoulder.

  Wolf glanced up and found the four of them surrounded by a ring of grinning Snake Bar horsemen. Lassiter and the kid were the closest. Wolf did not see Blackmann or his son.

  “Where’s Blackmann?” Wolf asked Lassiter.

  “He’s tending to more important business,” Lassiter said quietly. “He leaves the horse shit to us.”

  The ring of riders enjoyed that.

  Betsy was confused and frightened. Wolf could see her looking from face to face, becoming more and more terrified at the implacable coldness she found in each one. Not a single rider nodded to her; each one met her frantic gaze with a mocking grin.

  She reached out to Pike. “What’s the matter, Pa? What do they want? What have we done?”

  “Nothing. Nothing,” the old man said, patting her shoulder as he glared around at the circle of faces.

  “We’re just here to welcome you to Willow Bend, Miss,” Lassiter said. “That’s all.” His saddle squeaked as he turned in it to look around him at the other riders. “That’s right, ain’t it, boys? We like it when fresh young stock turns up. We’re getting sick of those old crows Fat Sal keeps dealing us!”

  “Someone better get Sal,” the kid said, licking his pale lips. “We’ve got a new pussy cat for her.”

  Lassiter leaned forward then so Pike wouldn’t miss a word. “She might as well get to know Sal right off. That’s where she’ll end up when we get through with you and your one-eyed gunslinger here.”

  That was more than Pike could take. Before Wolf could reach out to stop him, the old man had clawed his six-gun from its holster and was swinging it up. But Lassiter was faster. Before Pike could pull the trigger, Lassiter’s Colt was out of its holster, belching fire. Wolf was standing beside Pike. Even as he reached out to push the old man out of the way, he saw the bullet hit high on Pike’s right shoulder.

  The bullet’s impact at that distance drove Pike back, half turning him around before it slammed him into the dust of the street. Pike tried to sit up, then with a groan collapsed back again, this time remaining quiet. As Ben and Betsy dropped to the old man’s side, Wolf turned and looked back up at Lassiter, his right hand dropping to the butt of his Colt. Lassiter cocked his weapon and aimed it deliberately at Wolf’s remaining eye. Then he smiled.

  “Go ahead, draw,” Lassiter said. “Go ahead, Caulder. Please.”

  “All right! All right! What’s going on here? What’s all this commotion?”

  Wolf turned to see a red-faced, stocky individual with a badge pinned to his black vest hurrying across the street toward them. His cartridge belt sagged almost out of sight under the bulge of his pot belly, and as he moved toward them a great shout of laughter rose from the circle of riders.

  “Hey, there, Dundee!” cried Lassiter. “You’re just in time. That old coot Pike Hanson tried to shoot me!”

  “Oh ... I see.” The sheriff seemed uncertain and as he stood there, looking from Pike to Lassiter, trying to gauge the situation, he wavered slightly.

  Again the cowboys roared with appreciation. The sheriff of Willow Bend was drunk already and it was just a little past noon.

  Before the laughter subsided, Lassiter holstered his gun and backed his horse up. “Let’s go, boys! Don’t look like the Hansons appreciate our company!”

  With a whooping and a hollering the Snake Bar riders charged off down the street, a few of them emptying their revolvers into the bright blue sky, the explosion of their horses’ hooves dying only slowly.

  Wolf became aware of Betsy’s dry sobbing, pushed the searing anger back down inside of him and sent Ben running for a doctor. Then, ignoring the sheriff, he carried Pike through the silent crowd into the hotel.

  Five

  On the second floor of his big house Blackmann had his office—a long room that swept the length of the building. The four large windows set in the thick adobe walls looked out over his outbuildings and a good portion of his land, almost as far as Snake Creek where it emerged from the valley. At one end of the room sat his large bed, rumpled now since he had just left it, and at the other end he kept his oak desk—cluttered at the moment with deeds and tally sheets. When Blackmann was not forking a horse, it was in this room overlooking his world that he spent most of his days.

  It was just after sunup and through the windows could be seen the clean yellow glow from the rising sun as it caught the tops of the cottonwoods and jagged peaks of the range beyond the valley. But Blackmann was not noticing the dawn. He was sitting at his huge desk, his face buried in his hands, trembling.

  The nightmare that had sent him reeling from his bed still clung to him. It was Kathy again. Kathy and that poor excuse of a cowboy. He shuddered. He had found himself back in the deserted bunkhouse, the dead cowboy sprawled across his bunk, Kathy writhing on the floor as he caught her fragile body time and time again with the ripping coils of his whip. She was trying to crawl away from him, her body hunching up as she attempted to hide under one of the bunks.

  But he snapped the whip around her bloody waist and dragged her back to him. “Harlot!” he cried. “You are an abomination in the sight of God!”

  She groaned and tried to crawl away a second time. He dropped the whip and began kicking her. She gasped and tried to roll away, but a powerful kick stopped her.

  “Decked with gold—yes, decked with gold and precious stones—having a golden cup in her hand,” he cried as he continued to kick at her now quiet form, “full of abominations and the filthiness of her fornication! Upon her forehead is written—The Mother of Harlots—the Abomination of the Earth!”

  Exhausted, his head reeling from the violent expenditure of so much energy, he staggered back
and looked down at Kathy’s bloodied, ominously still figure. Sucking great gulps of air into his heaving lungs, he stepped forward and took her by the shoulder and turned her over ...

  It was Joshua’s face he saw, staring up at him!

  He staggered back, as if struck. Joshua began to sit up, his eyes burning into his, his finger pointing accusingly.

  “No!” he cried. “No, Joshua. I did not know it was you! I thought it was her!”

  But Joshua kept coming, his fingers reaching now for his father’s throat. Blackmann felt his six-gun leap into his hand. He fell back in a panic and began to squeeze off shot after shot. Joshua’s face was ruined as a slug plowed into it. And then the bullets kept ripping into his son’s face.

  And still he kept coming ... kept coming ...

  With a groan Blackmann shook himself and lifted his face from his hands and looked out into the fresh morning light. It was over. The dream was over now. He was awake—truly awake.

  Squaring his shoulders, he stood up and went to the window and looked out at the fresh world spread before him—his world, his land. The thought calmed him. The reality of what he saw erased finally the sad horror of his nightmare. Reaching out, he turned the window clasp and pushed out the window sash. The sounds of early morning activity and the fresh, cool wind from the grassland swept into the room.

  And then he saw Lassiter moving across the front yard, heading for the blacksmith shop.

  “Lassiter!” he called down. “See me after breakfast!”

  The man looked up and acknowledged the order with a curt wave. Blackmann pulled back from the window, realizing suddenly how hungry he was. If he was not mistaken, he could smell Juanita’s breakfast building below him already.