Frontier of Violence

by William W. Johnstone

  “I guess that makes sense,” Quirt allowed. “So what’s our next move?”

  “You’re right about plenty of lights burning inside. But see that one window on this side? The dark one that don’t have any light leaking through?” Bob jabbed a forefinger, pointing. Then, without waiting for any acknowledgment from Quirt, he went on. “My guess is that must be a room apart from the rest of the cabin, where all the lights are. I’m thinking we ought to move up on that dark side and have ourselves a closer look.”

  “Just sashay right up like we owned the place, eh?”

  “You’re the one who said you work good in the dark.”

  “I do—long as I don’t smile. Or unless I got a paleface tagging along to take away my natural advantage.”

  “Paleface? That’s kinda stealing from the Injuns, ain’t it?”

  “Trust me, us blacks have our own terms for white folks. But I was trying to be polite.”

  One corner of Bob’s mouth twitched with a wry smile. “No matter. I’m moving up on that cabin regardless.”

  “Not like I expected you’d change your mind. Lead the way.”

  In a matter of minutes, they had moved across the open area and were pressed up against the outside of the house. They froze that way, silent and motionless for several beats, alert for any sign that their advance might have drawn unwanted attention. When there was no such indication, they crouched low and edged around to the front of the cabin. Quirt stayed low and between boards found a sizable chink that he could peer through. Bob straightened up a little higher and chose a seam where the closed window shutter fit poorly and gave him a look at the interior. When they’d each had a good long gander at how things stood inside, they eased back and retreated to a woodpile just off the back corner of the house.

  “Well, it’s them, all right,” whispered Bob, somewhat breathlessly. “Bunched together like fish in a barrel.”

  “Only trouble is,” replied Quirt, “those particular fish are armed to the teeth. And then there’s the matter of the women.”

  “Yeah, I wasn’t likely to miss that. Right there close at hand, sure to be at risk in case any lead starts flying.”

  “Did you see how they’ve got ’em tied up?” Quirt hissed in a disgusted tone. “Wrists behind their backs and then neck-roped like they were a couple damn dogs or something. Varmints that low deserve nothing but—”

  “Yeah, I think we’re pretty much in agreement on what they deserve,” Bob cut in. “But how we deliver it without putting the women in worse danger is the question. The important thing right now is seeing that the gals are still alive and they don’t appear to have been beaten or abused too bad other than the way they’re bound. If we can get ’em back without ’em having to endure any worse than that, we’ll be doing okay.”

  “You figure they’re just stopping here to take on supplies and swap horses, right?”

  “That’s how I see it, yeah. They might have fooled themselves into thinking that, by taking hostages, they kept a posse from following immediately on their heels. But ol’ Moses is clever enough not to rely too heavily on that. I can’t see him wasting too much time here.”

  “The way they’re sitting there filling their faces don’t look like a pack of wolves in an over-big hurry to me.”

  “Given what lies ahead for them, providing the old man is planning a long, steady run from here, like I figure he is, stopping to chow down on a big meal before they head out ain’t necessarily a reckless thing. But staying too long—like to grab some shut-eye or something, if that’s what you’re thinking—no, I figure Moses is smarter than that.”

  Quirt shrugged. “In that case, the solution to our problem don’t seem so difficult after all.”

  “Oh?”

  “If they’re gonna be heading out again before long, we just set ourselves up to be ready for ’em. I hope you’re not figuring to try and take them with any of that ‘Reach for the sky, you’re under arrest’ bullcrap, are you?”

  Bob’s expression hardened. “As long as they’ve got hostages, anything like that would only result in giving ’em a chance to put guns to the women’s heads and we’d be right back to a standoff.”

  “Exactly. So instead we do it with, say, me and you waiting at each corner of the shack. Hell, there’s only four of ’em. Even if they come out dragging the women on the ends of ropes, we could cut ’em down before they ever knew what hit ’em.”

  “Not a bad idea. Except for a couple hitches.”

  “Such as?”

  Through clenched teeth, Bob said, “What if they decide they’ve gotten enough use out of having the women as hostages and they’re not worth dragging along any farther? If their thinking runs that way and they go ahead and kill the women before leaving, it’ll make it easier for us when they do pop their scurvy heads out—but it’d be a little late.”

  “Shit, man. That’d be a helluva cold-blooded stunt to pull.”

  “You see anything back in Rattlesnake Wells to make you think they ain’t cold-blooded?” Bob’s tone was bitter. Then he went on: “All I’m saying is that it’s a possibility. But is it one we want to gamble on? And if they decide to keep the hostages alive, then that leaves open the possibility for something else. From what we saw, it appears like no ravaging of the women took place yet. But you can damn well bet it’s on the mind of some of those animals. Even if he wanted to, the old man won’t be able to keep those boys under control for very long. While they’re already stopped to take on supplies and grub, who’s to say he might not decide to allow a couple quick turns to let ’em get it out of their systems, at least temporarily? You know what that could lead to where Cyrus is concerned—is that another possibility you want to wait for?”

  In the deep shadow of the woodpile, Quirt’s face was mostly obscured but his eyes flashed like hot coals. “Jesus, Marshal! The way your mind works, it’s a good thing you’re on the right side of the law.”

  “I have that hope every time I pin on this badge.”

  Quirt heaved a ragged sigh. “So if waiting for ’em to come out when they’re ready on their own don’t fit your pistol, you got another idea?”

  “Matter of fact, I do,” said Bob. “I’m thinking we hurry them along on their decision to leave that cabin.”

  “And we do that how?”

  “We smoke ’em out.” Bob pointed upward. “See that smokestack poking up out of the roof there? The one whose smoke first caught our eye?”

  “Indeed I do,” said Quirt, quickly starting to see where he had a hunch Bob was headed.

  “I’m willing to supply the jacket to stuff down that pipe in order to turn the smoke back around on those inside,” said Bob, “if you’re willing to kick off your boots and supply the cat-footedness to crawl up on the roof without being heard. You’re lighter and—don’t let it go to your head when I say this—sprier than me for something like that.”

  Quirt grinned. “I’m also better-looking, not to mention a whole lot of other things. But we’ll leave it go at handsomer and sprier for now. All I ask is that, when they come boiling out, you leave at least one of ’em for me to shoot.”

  “I’ll do my best. Now get those boots off.”

  CHAPTER 43

  “Okay then,” announced Moses Shaw as he pushed his chair back from the table and his emptied plate. “I believe now is the time for me to go back to my room and pack up the personal items I intend to depart with. First and foremost, a-course, bein’ this little baby right here.” He reached down to pat the gun case that had been leaning against the side of his chair, then went on. “It won’t take long, but it’ll give you boys a few minutes to let your eats settle. When I come back out, we’ll all head for the corral to pick our mounts and saddle up for our journey.”

  “However you say, Pop.”

  Getting a grip on the gun case’s handle, Moses stood up. “I think what I’ll do,” he said, sweeping his gaze over his sons, eyes taking on a curious look that seemed to convey a hint of s
uspicion or perhaps a challenge, “is take the señorita back with me. With her hands still bound, but in front, she can hold the lantern for me. That’ll help me find what I need quicker.”

  Wiley blinked. “Well heck, Pop, if you want a helpin’ hand I could—”

  “I said the señorita,” Moses snapped, cutting him short. “If you want to be useful, go ahead and untie her from that stove leg and give her a lantern. Then you boys just relax for a spell, like I said. Enjoy takin’ it easy while you can.” The challenging glint in Moses’s eye was stronger than ever.

  As Wiley knelt at the stove leg and began untying the rope whose opposite end was looped around Consuela’s neck, Alora Dane suddenly thrashed in her own restraints. “You leave that girl alone, you filthy old pig!” she shouted at Moses. “You dried-up, shriveled-up old bastard, you probably don’t even have—” Alora worked herself into such a state that she yanked so hard against the loop around her own neck it choked her off and caused her words to end in a sharp gagging sound.

  “What about this one? What do you want us to do with her?” asked Harley.

  “For starters, teach her to show some respect and mind her foul mouth . . . for her own good,” said Moses.

  Harley and Cyrus exchanged glances.

  “Damn you all!” cried Alora, finding her voice again, though it now came in a harsh rasp. “Take me, if you must! But leave that poor girl . . . Don’t—”

  Cyrus shut her up with a hard jerk on the throat loop, turning her words once again into a fit of gagging. That done, he turned to face his father. “Anything else for this one?”

  “Like what?”

  Cyrus licked his lips. “Well, it occurs to me, since we still have some time left, that maybe I got a few more things I might want to pack. If I had somebody to, er, hold a lantern for me so’s I could take a closer look, that is. You know, to make sure I didn’t miss nothing. This floozy, as you call her, would probably do for that. Might even help keep her quiet if she had something else to concentrate on.”

  Moses’s eyes again passed back and forth between Cyrus and Harley, just as Wiley was handing him the rope attached to Consuela. “Go ahead then, if you think it’s worth the effort,” he said in a measured tone. “Just see to it you’re done when I come out of my room.”

  Cyrus and Harley smiled thin, smug smiles.

  None of them had noticed the single scuff of sound that had come from up on the roof a minute earlier. And, so far, none of them were yet showing any awareness of the smoke haze starting to thicken in the air around the stove and gradually spread outward . . .

  * * *

  Consuela’s heart had started thundering inside her, faster and faster, from the instant Moses stated his intent to take her into his room. To hold the lantern for him while he packed his things. She realized, of course, the hidden meaning in those words. The thought of that naturally sent an immediate wave of fright and repulsion through her. But then, strangely, there also was a surge of excitement as she recognized how this might provide her the chance—alone in a room with the vile old man, separated from the others—to attempt an escape.

  When Alora Dane suddenly protested on her behalf, it had surprised Consuela and then sent a pang of guilt knifing into her. She never expected anything like that from the entertainer, a woman she barely knew, a woman she had made up her mind she would be willing to abandon if it improved her chances for getting away and making it back to Bucky. And now Alora was not only speaking up for her but was actually offering to sacrifice herself as an alternative.

  When Cyrus so roughly jerked Alora’s neck loop, Consuela had started to voice her own protest. But she held her tongue. She knew it would do no good and, if she put up too much of a fuss, Moses could possibly change his mind about taking her into the room. It might be insane for her to want to go in there with him, but she was desperate enough to weigh the potential opportunity against the possible horror. It was the only glimmer of a chance that had come along so far and she couldn’t count on anything better showing up if she waited.

  The thing that was giving Consuela her hope of turning the tables on Moses, if she had him alone and out of sight of the others, was the weapon she’d managed to covertly slip into her apron pocket. All the while she’d been preparing the meal, especially when she was using a carving knife to slice the ham, she’d been alert for something useful she could secrete away for the appropriate time.

  But she wasn’t the only one alert for such a thing. Wiley was watching her specifically for that kind of sleight of hand and he made sure that every tool or utensil she touched got returned and accounted for . . . except for one item. The curve-handled, blunt-tipped lid lifter that hung from a bent rack on the side of the stove. It was a small, practical tool for lifting hot lids off pots or the even hotter circular covers off the cooking surface of the stove itself. It was small but had some heft to it and the blunt tip of its working end—designed to slip into notches on the aforementioned lids or covers so the tool could be used, leverlike, to raise them without risk of burning one’s hands—had enough of a point so that, with enough force, it could be driven into vulnerable parts of a person.

  If Moses gave her the slightest opening, Consuela had no doubt she could muster the physical force to drive that tip repeatedly and fatally into his neck . . .

  CHAPTER 44

  Outside, as he moved along the darkened outer wall of the cabin, Bob made a surprising discovery. The single window there had its vertical shutter dropped down, as if closed, but it wasn’t bolted. In fact, it was cracked open a couple of inches, held that way by a small wedge of wood, apparently to let in some fresh air. Neither Bob nor Quirt had noticed this when they’d edged along the wall earlier on their way to find some chinks they could peer through in the front.

  However this new discovery might have altered their plans if they’d known about it then was a moot point now; it was too late to change what was already set in motion. Quirt was already up on the roof and there was no way for Bob to signal him without risking unwanted attention. Still, he squatted under the window in question and pondered if there was any benefit to be gained from finding it this way.

  Then, before he had the chance to conclude anything, there was sudden activity in the formerly darkened room. The door opened, light flooded in, and there was the scrape of feet entering. Bob dropped lower and shifted his position, searching to try and find a suitable chink between boards that he could peer through to see what was going on inside. When he found one, a bolt of agony and then rage shot through him.

  Through the opening, he saw Moses Shaw leading Consuela into the room, tugging her along by the rope around her neck. Consuela’s wrists were bound in front of her and she was holding a lantern. Her expression was a carefully controlled mask—a beautiful one—but Bob knew her well enough to recognize the tremors of anxiety fluttering under her smooth cinnamon skin. He wanted to groan, to scream. His hand formed an empty claw, wanting to close around the grips of his .44 and aim it to blast Moses Shaw to Hell.

  But he couldn’t. Not right yet. A sudden, reckless move at this juncture would only elevate the danger level for Consuela and practically guarantee her catching a bullet in what followed.

  Bob was close enough to the window opening to hear Moses speak.

  “Put the lantern on the table, señorita.”

  “I thought you wanted me to hold it closer for you. So you could better see to choose your things for packing,” Consuela replied.

  “There is time for that. Just do what I say.”

  There was an odd, singsongy gentleness to Moses’s voice. For the moment. Bob knew that would change suddenly if Consuela resisted too much. And Bob had no doubt—whether she resisted or not—what the evil old patriarch ultimately had in mind. The mere thought made his guts convulse. Being this close, within sight and sound, if the old bastard went too far, Bob knew he wouldn’t be able to hold back—no matter what.

  Where was that goddamn smoke?

 
; Shouldn’t it be filling the cabin by now?

  Reluctantly, Bob edged toward the front corner of the cabin in hopes of getting a quick idea of what was going on in the rest of the interior. Hoping it wasn’t just his imagination, he thought he could smell stinging trails of smoke starting to waft out of the structure. And then, for certain, he heard coughing from within.

  A moment after that he also heard the loud bark of Moses’s voice issuing out through the partially open window. “What the hell is going on out there?”

  “Pop! Pop!” The voice of one of the sons, only fainted muted by the flimsy old walls, called out in concert with a pounding on the door of the room containing Moses and Consuela. “Something’s wrong! The stove is on fire!”

  “Well, put the damn thing out!”

  “It’s real bad. The smoke is gettin’ so thick we can’t hardly see.”

  More coughing. From several different sources, by the sound of it.

  “Pop, we gotta get the hell out of here,” came the voice of a different son. “This ol’ tinderbox is gonna go up in flames!”

  “Get out then, you blunderin’ damn pups,” Moses hollered back. “This place ain’t nothing to us no more anyway!”

  “You’d better hurry up or you won’t be able to see your way through all the smoke.”

  “Just go! You think I ain’t lived in this dump long enough to pick my way through a little haze. Git!”

  Bob could hear more coughing and then the frantic scramble of feet coming from the main room of the cabin.

  The marshal suddenly found himself in a quandary.

  The Shaw sons—and Alora Dane, presumably—were going to come boiling out the front door any second. Right according to plan . . . Except that stubborn old Moses and Consuela would be lagging behind. So if Bob, Quirt, and maybe the rest of the posse members coming down from the other slope, opened up on the initial bunch, then that would provide a warning to Moses before he showed his ugly damned face. And, given such a warning, the treacherous old bastard was certain to put his gun to Consuela’s pretty head and try to wangle another deal.