Nate’s eyes slowly widened in belief.
“We’re wasting time,” Ethan said bluntly. “Nate, you start talking or I’ll cut it off myself.”
“I don’t know anything,” Nate insisted.
“Maybe we ought to take off an ear, instead,” Seth said, moving the knife around to the side of the younger man’s head. He made a quick slicing motion, and a spout of blood arched into the barn’s entry.
When Nate started to squawk, Gabe hurriedly shoved the sacking back into his mouth.
“Tell us!” Seth shouted into Nate’s face. “Tell us, or by God, I’ll cut both ears off.”
Nate struggled desperately, but Gabe’s grip was too strong. Seth passed the bloodied knife in front of Nate’s eyes, on its way to the other ear. A fresh spurt of blood, and Nate screamed into the sacking. “Talk, boy!” Seth roared.
Nate was jerking wildly, tears streaming down his cheeks. They waited until his gyrations slowed before Gabe removed the sacking. “Please, God, don’t cut me no more,” Nate blubbered.
Ethan shoved forward. “Who hired Nolan Andrews and his boys?”
“I don’t . . . Jesus, no!” He strained away from the knife Seth brandished in his face. “I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you! Just . . . give me a minute . . .”
“Bullshit,” Seth spat. “Let’s gag him again and whittle off something else.”
Nate threw Ethan a desperate look. “I swear, Wilder, I’ll tell you everything I know, but I don’t know who hired Andrews. I swear to God I don’t!”
“What do you know?”
Nate swallowed hard, tried to calm himself. “I . . . not much. Pa never tells me anything, just ‘be here’ or ‘go there.’ All I know is what I overhear.”
“Nate,” Ethan said darkly.
“All right, I . . . I heard him talking to Finch tonight.”
“Ralph Finch, Burke’s deputy?”
“Yeah. Pa said he’d make it worth Finch’s while if he got us into the jail. Said there’d be enough for him to go somewhere else and live good for a year, never have to lift a finger.”
“What did Finch say?”
“He said he’d do it, and took off just a couple of minutes before Maynard came in. I figured . . .”
Ethan swore and spun away from the rancher’s son, heading for the door.
“Ethan, what do you want us to do with . . .?” Seth called.
“Do whatever you want with him,” Ethan snapped.
The wind was growing stronger, kicking up skiffs of dust that it flung about randomly, and lightning flashed in the distance. The air felt charged and heady, like the night itself was about to explode.
Ethan stopped at the edge of the street in front of Carver’s house. Down at the Bullshead, Charlie Kestler was sitting his horse in impatient fury, jerking at the bit with a tight rein, gouging the animal with his spurs, then pulling it back. Most of his crew were already mounted, but a few of them were still afoot, scurrying about in different directions as if searching for someone.
Searching for Nate, Ethan thought. Unknowingly he and the Barlows had bought themselves some time when they snatched Nate out of the Bullshead’s back lot, but he knew Charlie wouldn’t wait forever.
Keeping out of sight, Ethan hurried toward the jail. The sounds of unrest in the street grew louder as he drew closer. Torches bucked in the strengthening wind. He was just entering the alley behind the jail when the rear door flew open and Finch came running out. The two men nearly collided. Finch’s eyes saucered when he recognized Ethan. He opened his mouth as if to cry a warning, but Ethan, carrying his rifle in both hands, instinctively swung the butt upward as hard as he could. The blow caught Finch under the chin and the deputy crumpled as if someone had pulled a pin loosening every joint in his body.
Ethan hesitated only a moment. Then he heard a crash from the front of the jail, and knew that Charlie Kestler had come for his revenge.
Chapter Fifteen
Leaving Finch in a heap outside, Ethan raced into the jail just as a second mighty blow shook the building. He’d expected the front door to be unlocked, but either Finch had forgotten to throw the bolt, or he’d panicked and fled before completing his assignment.
Jeff Burke lay on the floor beside his desk, the hair on the back of his head matted with seeping blood, while men out front yelled for him to open up, threatening to tear the door off its hinges if he didn’t comply. Ethan wondered how many of them knew about Kestler’s bribe, Finch’s double-cross.
The keys to the cells were hung on a peg beside the door leading into the holding area. Ethan grabbed them on his way through. The faces of both Joel and Ben were pressed to the bars, ashen with fear.
“Ethan!” Ben shouted.
“Shut up,” Joel snapped.
“Both of you shut up,” Ethan ordered. He unlocked Joel’s cell first. “You remember what I said about horses?”
“You’ve got two of ’em saddled and waiting in Carver’s barn.”
Ethan shoved the big .50-95 Winchester into Joel’s hands. “Take this . . . just don’t use it if you don’t have to.” He went to the next cell and released Ben. “Stay with Joel,” he ordered. “Head up to Elk Camp. I’ll find you there. And dammit, Ben, do what I say this time!”
“I will,” Ben promised as Ethan hustled him down the hall after Joel.
They passed through the front room. Jeff was coming around, up on his elbows with his head wagging groggily. There was more pounding at the front door, and the jamb suddenly splintered, revealing a long, jagged scar in the wood. Ethan grabbed Jeff’s collar and hauled him to his feet. The sheriff made a feeble attempt to draw his revolver but his holster was empty, the gun nowhere in sight.
“Get your hands off me, Wilder,” Jeff said, but it was a command without teeth. The way the sheriff was wobbling, Ethan figured the lawman would drop like a rock if he did.
“Come with me,” Ethan said, propelling Jeff toward the cells. “Kestler’s liable to shoot you if he busts in here and you try to stop him.”
“I can handle . . .” The sheriff’s words trailed off. Ethan led him into a cell, then slammed the door shut and turned the lock. “. . . Charlie Kestler,” Jeff finished finally, slumping down on the bunk. “Jesus,” he whispered, bowing his head to the pain.
“It’s better this way,” Ethan assured him.
Then the whole building shuddered under a massive blow, and Ethan darted back into the office. The front door was partially down, nearly torn from its frame. Only the lower hinge was holding, but that wasn’t enough to keep out Kestler’s men.
Clint, the tall cowboy from the Bullshead, was the first to scramble inside; the shorter cowboy followed. Kestler was the third man back, urging those in front of him to hurry, but the twisted door kept teetering under them, throwing them off balance. Then Kestler spotted Ethan.
“It’s Wilder!” he screamed. “Shoot the bastard!”
The door lurched suddenly, and Clint dropped, hard, to one knee, nearly losing his revolver. The second cowboy continued to take aim, but clumsily.
Ethan palmed his Remington and snapped off a shot that thudded into the jamb next to the cowboy’s head. The cowboy cried out and jerked away, splinters angling from his cheek like tiny spears. Then the door shifted once more and his feet slid out from under him. He fell on top of Clint and the two men tumbled into the jail. Kestler had a clear shot now, and Ethan ducked as the rancher fired. He felt a child-like tug at his shirt, a brief sting, then he was retreating toward the back door, firing rapidly.
Powder smoke filled the sheriff’s office, obscuring everyone’s view. Ethan didn’t know if he’d hit anyone or not, but he made it to the rear door unscathed. Leaping Finch’s prone form, he sprinted into the darkness of the alley. Gunfire continued to puncture the night, but the sounds of battle softened after Ethan put several buildings between himself and the jail.
His pulse thundered in his ears as he made his way back to the Carvers’. He walked swiftly, reloading
as he went. The old cap-and-ball revolver was slow to charge, but he’d done it a thousand times before, and was barely aware that he was doing it now. He capped all six chambers, then lowered the hammer to a safety notch cut between the nipples.
Carver’s home, like the rest of the town save for the Bullshead and the sheriff’s office, was dark. Even the porch lamp Doc normally kept lit for injured parties to find his office after hours had been snuffed.
Ethan by-passed the house for the barn. The wide front door was open, and he paused outside to listen. Everything seemed quiet, and he slipped inside, revolver cocked. “Joel?” he whispered. “Ben?”
There was no answer.
“Seth?”
More silence. He remembered the lantern they’d used earlier, and felt his way to it. He was careful to stand well back from the match’s flare when he scratched it alight, but there was no reaction. Lighting the lantern and raising it above his head, he spun a slow circle. There was nothing to see. The barn was empty.
He went over to where they’d bullied Nate Kestler into revealing his father’s plan to break into the jail. There was blood on the straw, but not much, and the stalls were empty. The Appaloosa and sorrel were gone, and Ethan began to breathe easier.
He extinguished the lantern and left the barn, turning north toward the hunters’ camp. Normally there would have been firelight to guide him, but the camp was dark in the face of the approaching storm—either the one coming in from the high plains with its distant lightning and gusting winds, or the one still brewing in town. He was almost upon the wagons before he could make them out, hulking shadows only slightly darker than the surrounding landscape. He stopped to listen but couldn’t even make out the murmur of conversation. Wrapping his fingers around the Remington’s smooth grips, Ethan eased toward Badger Dick’s wagon.
He was almost at the tailgate before a solitary figure next to the rear wheel challenged his approach. “Who’s there?”
“Ethan Wilder.”
“By God, it’s Ethan, boys!” Badger Dick exclaimed. “Come on in, son.”
Ethan heard others coming toward him, shuffling feet, muted greetings, genuine happiness for his safe return. He wasn’t surprised to see that they were all heavily armed. He’d expected no less.
“Where are Seth and Gabe?” he asked.
“Right here,” Seth answered from nearby. He came up to clap Ethan on the shoulder. “We heard gunfire, and were afraid you’d been shot.”
“I’m all right,” Ethan replied, then told them what had happened at the jail.
When he finished, Gerard said: “Burke, he saw you break Joel and Ben out of jail?”
Ethan nodded, growing somber when he saw Gerard’s worried expression. “Why? What’s wrong?”
“You broke the law,” Badger Dick said. “You’ll be wanted by it now.”
“Me?” Ethan stared at those around him. “I saved my brothers from a lynching. Jeff can’t hold that against me.”
“But Kestler can, and he’s powerful enough to see that the reasons you did it get swept out the back door where no one can see them,” Badger Dick replied.
“Maybe it will not be as we fear, but you cannot take that chance,” Gerard said kindly.
Ethan swore under his breath, but he knew they were right. If Kestler wanted him out of the way, Ethan had just dropped the means to do it right in the cattleman’s lap.
“Your horse, where is it?” Gerard asked.
“Joel and Ben have them.”
“Gabe, fetch Pokey,” Badger Dick told his son. “Ethan, you have to get out of Sundance, at least for a while. Go find your brothers at Elk Camp.”
“You know about Elk Camp?”
Badger Dick smiled. “Of course we know about Elk Camp. Where else would a Wilder go when he’s in trouble?”
Gabe returned within minutes, leading a tall horse already saddled and bridled.
“Woman!” Badger Dick called in a low voice, and Mary Many Robes materialized out of the darkness, arms burdened with gear that she began stowing on the horse.
“There are some blankets and food and my bear-hide coat,” Badger Dick said. “Enough to keep you for a few days. I’ll send Gabe or Seth when things settle down.”
Ethan took the reins and stepped into the saddle.
“God give you speed,” Gerard said.
Ethan nodded stiffly and reined away, jogging his mount over to Turcotte’s wagon. He called out softly as he approached, and a shadow separated itself from the wagon and moved swiftly toward him.
“Ethan!” Rachel cried, and he stepped down and caught her in his arms. She wrapped hers around his neck, pulling his face close, pressing her lips to his with an unfamiliar hunger. “I was scared,” she said, leaning back. “There was so much shooting.”
“I’m all right, but I have to go away for a while.”
“I know. I heard.”
“Stay close to camp and don’t go into town. Things are getting mean in there. Chances are I’ll be back in a few days, but, if not, I’ll get word to you somehow.”
“Papa says you are wanted by the law, like Joel and Ben.”
“Just for a while . . . just until Jeff gets back on his feet. Then I’ll come in and we’ll sort it all out.”
Her arms tightened, her body so warm and soft he wanted to sink into it forever. “Be careful, Ethan. I love you.”
He took her chin in his fingers, tipped her face up, lowered his. There was a tenderness in their kiss that had not been there before, a knowledge that this moment might never be repeated.
Breaking it, he said: “I love you, too, Rachel.”
“Ethan!”
He swung into the saddle and rode away.
Chapter Sixteen
He watched the house from the cover of the barn. The windows were dark, the street silent. Even the ruckus down by the jail had tapered off to a grumbling echo. After half an hour, he left his roost to glide stealthily across the rear yard. When he knocked at the door, a voice answered immediately, demanding identification.
“Ethan Wilder.”
The lock turned and the door swung inward. “Come in,” Doc said tersely.
Ethan entered the dimly lit room, and Carver shut and locked the door. There was a lamp on the desk, its wick turned so low it barely illuminated the room, and heavy drapes on the windows had been drawn closed.
“What happened out there?” he asked.
Ethan told him some of it—his attempt to talk Ira into closing the Bullshead, his visit to the hunters’ camp, followed by his encounter at the jail with Charlie Kestler—but left out the parts about threatening Nate Kestler in Doc’s barn, and smacking Ralph Finch upside his head with a rifle butt.
There was a rustle of satin at the parlor door and Claudia came into the office, her expression grave. “Was anyone hurt?” she asked, leading Ethan to believe she had been listening from the other room.
“Jeff took a hard rap to the top of his head.”
“Does he need help?” Doc asked.
“I reckon if he does, he’ll know where to find it.”
“Ethan is right,” Claudia said. “You should stay here. This will be where they will bring anyone who needs your assistance.”
She made sense, Ethan thought, but he could tell Doc was torn. He wanted to go where he was needed; he just wasn’t sure where that was at the moment.
“I’ll stay for a while,” he said finally.
“How’s Vic?” Ethan asked.
Doc exchanged a strained look with his wife, then sighed. “I’m afraid Vic relapsed this evening.”
“Relapsed? What does . . . is he dying?”
“You knew how seriously injured Vic was,” Doc replied almost defensively. “Most men wouldn’t have survived the ride into town.”
“But you said he was getting better.”
“No, I didn’t. Vic rallied briefly this afternoon, but he never fully regained consciousness. Not even when you were speaking with him.” Doc walked over
to a wing-back leather chair and seemed to collapse within its embrace. There was a bottle of bourbon and a tumbler on the little table beside him, the tumbler containing maybe a quarter inch of liquor. He drained it swiftly, then grimaced and set the glass aside. Shaking his head at his helplessness, he said: “There’s nothing I can do. I don’t have the skills to attempt the kind of operation your brother needs.”
Ethan glanced at the bottle. Doc made a dismissing gesture in its direction. “It’s not that. It’s . . . I’m not a young man any more. My hands aren’t as steady as they used to be, and my vision isn’t as sharp. With the location of the bullet, and especially the bone fragments, even a twitch on my part during surgery could kill him.”
“Mister Carver seldom drinks,” Claudia said in her husband’s behalf. “He’s had that same bottle of bourbon since last Christmas.”
Ethan lumbered over to a chair in front of Doc’s desk and sat down heavily. He felt suddenly exhausted, as if everything that had happened since his return from the mountains had caught up with him in that instant. “Is there anyone who can operate on him?”
“Perhaps in Bismarck or Saint Paul. Most certainly there would be qualified surgeons in Chicago. But the risk in transporting Vic there would negate the odds of success to practically zero, and I frankly doubt if a younger, more skilled physician would come here. Especially in light of your brother’s current condition. The odds that he’d live long enough for help to arrive are slim.”
“But there is a chance?”
Doc hesitated, then shook his head. “No. I’m sorry.”
Ethan tipped his head back and closed his eyes. He wanted to sleep, to cry; he wanted to rip and tear and bellow his rage. But he did none of that. He forced himself to remain seated, to keep his mouth shut, palms flat on his knees.
“You can sit with him if you’d like,” Doc said.
“No, maybe later.” Slowly, as if carrying a hundred-pound sack of grain on each shoulder, Ethan stood and headed for the door.
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