Ben, riding in the lead, glanced over his shoulder. “Pa’s up there?”
Ethan nodded. It seemed a long time ago now that he’d tossed that handful of dirt into Jacob Wilder’s grave, listened to the dry, bone-like rattle of clods hitting the top of the simple pine casket.
“Want to have a look?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Ben said, then quickly turned away, lest someone see the moisture in his eyes.
Ethan glanced at Joel. “What about you? Want to pay your final respects?”
“Final’s what it’s going to be,” Joel growled nasally. “But if it’ll keep me out of Burke’s jail a little longer, I’ll do it.”
“I want to say a prayer over his grave,” Ben announced.
Joel snorted laughter, spraying the front of his already bloody shirt with another fine, pink mist. “You’re too late, little Brother, if you think the Lord’s going to change his mind about Pa. Likely he’s already down in hell, threatening to whup ol’ Lucifer’s ass if he don’t step out of the way.”
Ben laughed at the image. “Maybe, but I still want to say a prayer. It couldn’t hurt.”
They reached the base of the slope and began to climb. On top, they paused to locate the freshly turned earth where Jacob had been laid to rest.
“Hey, that ain’t a bad spot,” Ben stated brightly. “We gonna get a headstone, Ethan?”
“Sure, we’ll get one,” Joel interjected. “Buy one big enough for the whole family, I say.”
Biting his lip to keep from making a retort, Ethan reined his horse in front of the Barlow bay Joel was riding so that he could be at Ben’s side when they reached Jacob’s grave. They were plainsmen, and didn’t dismount. A man didn’t need to stand flat-footed on the ground to say his good byes, but Ben hung his head low, chin pressed lightly into the fabric of his calico shirt. Ethan glanced at Joel, who had stopped several yards away and was studiously avoiding looking at the raw earth where their pa lay.
“You going to say a prayer, Ben?”
“I’m already sayin’ it, Ethan.”
“What about you, Joel?”
“Do your own praying, and mind your own business.”
Ethan shrugged, but he didn’t feel like praying, either. Joel was right. Jacob Wilder had set off down his own trail years before, and nothing any of his sons said now was going to change his destination.
Stretching tiredly, Ethan backed the Appaloosa away from the grave. Following the direction of Joel’s gaze, he found himself staring speculatively at the Merrick house, and, out of nowhere, an image came to him, that of watching Merrick’s wife heading for the barn with a basket on her arm.
He’d figured then that she was going after eggs or some other grub they kept there, but, thinking back now, recalling how she’d come around the side of the house after he’d taken Lou’s rifle away from him, he realized her basket had been empty on her return, carried lightly on her arm. She hadn’t been going to the barn to fetch something. She’d gone there to leave something. Ethan frowned, recalling the red- and white-checked cloth at the bottom of the basket. The kind people used for picnic lunches.
Straightening, Ethan said: “Come on, Ben. I want to check something before we ride all the way in.”
Joel looked up curiously. “You got something special in mind, big Brother?”
“It’s probably nothing,” Ethan replied vaguely, giving the Appaloosa its head.
They rode through the cemetery to the lane that led back into town, descending the hill to the narrow side street where the Merricks lived. If anyone noticed them, they didn’t make a fuss about it. Ethan was hoping that, with the lowering sun at their backs, they wouldn’t be easily recognized.
There was no fence to keep them out, and they rode around back and dismounted at the barn’s closed front door, sagging into the dirt on rusting hinges. There was a smaller door built into the larger one, and Ethan handed his reins to Ben and drew the Remington. “If hell breaks loose in there, you boys skedaddle fast, understand?”
“Like hell,” Joel said, giving Ben his reins, then digging Finch’s revolver from the Appaloosa’s saddlebags where Ethan had stowed it that morning. Ethan didn’t protest, but waited silently until Joel joined him at the door.
“Soon as we get inside, I’ll go left,” Ethan mouthed.
Joel nodded. That was all the instruction he needed.
Ethan pulled gently on the weathered cotton rope, the latch inside grating softly as it was lifted out of its cradle. He gave the door a push, then ducked inside and stepped to his left, gaze sweeping the small interior. The light was poor—slanting rays dissecting the straw-carpeted floor, dust motes bobbing and swirling like drunken revelers. Ethan’s heart felt like it was trying to climb into his throat as he eased deeper into the barn. There was no livestock—not even laying hens—but there was a rustling of straw toward the rear of the building, a rippling belch followed by a slurred curse.
“Who’s there?” a raspy voice demanded.
Ethan and Joel exchanged glances. Ethan nodded to the right and Joel took off, keeping low. Ethan angled toward the pile of straw where the voice had originated.
“Woman?” The voice was demanding, impatient.
Ethan glided swiftly across the dirt floor. A pair of stockinged feet on top of twisted blankets came into view, a greasy tin plate and empty whiskey bottle sitting carelessly between the man’s ankles. A carbine and holstered revolver leaned against a wooden support beside the bedroll, and Ethan quickened his pace.
From the far side of the barn, Joel said: “The woman isn’t coming.”
A heavy-gutted man with matted salt-and-pepper hair sat up, craning his neck toward the sound of Joel’s voice. “Who is that?” he shouted.
Stepping close, Ethan kicked the man’s gun belt into the shadows, tossed the carbine after it.
The man swung around, confused but not frightened, more drunk than sober.
“Who’re . . .?” He stopped, and his expression went slack.
When Ethan saw the blood-stained bandage on the man’s mutilated hand, a sudden roaring filled his head, like the pounding of a locomotive. Voice grating, Ethan said: “Come on in, Joel. We’ve caught the bastard who shot Vic.”
“Sum-bitch,” the drunkard muttered. He tried to climb to his feet but Ethan shoved him back, sent him sprawling. He howled when his injured hand struck the hard ground, and Ethan took a threatening step forward.
“Shut up, bushwhacker, before I gag your mouth with my boot.”
The man raised his injured hand to his chest. “Don’t shoot, mister. I’m drunk.”
“You figure that’s any reason not to kill you?” Joel asked, coming up on the bushwhacker’s other side.
“Lordy, but it is. A man hadn’t ought to meet his Maker in the pitiful condition I’m in.”
“He’s an insightful sack of shit,” Joel commented. “You sure this is the one, Eth?”
“I’d bet my summer’s catch of pelts on it.”
“Good enough for me,” Joel said, flashing the gunman a sinister smile made all the more evil by the bruised, mis-shapened lump of his broken nose. “What’s your name, lard ass?”
“Wilkie,” the gunman replied cooperatively. “Bob Wilkie. My friends call me Bobby.”
“Then I reckon we’ll keep calling you Wilkie,” Joel said.
“Aw, hell,” Wilkie groaned, then belched loudly. Glancing at Ethan, he explained almost apologetically: “I get windy when I drink. You’re them Wilder boys, ain’t cha?”
“What happened to your hand?” Ethan asked.
“You ought to know. You was the one nearly took it off with that damn’ bear gun of yours.”
If Ethan needed any more proof of Wilkie’s guilt, that was it. Holstering the Remington, he squatted in front of the bushwhacker. “I need some answers, and you’re going to give them to me.”
Wilkie’s eyes widened warily. He was still drunk, but not so far gone that he didn’t recognize the danger he was in.
“I don’t know nothin’,” he replied defiantly.
“Who do you work for?”
“I said I didn’t know nothin’.”
“Yeah, I heard you the first time.” Ethan pulled his Bowie from its sheath, remembering how swiftly a knife had broken down Nate Kestler’s resolve last night.
Wilkie’s gaze followed the hand-forged blade almost hypnotically as Ethan passed it back and forth in front of his nose. “What’re you gonna do?”
“What do you want me to do? First, I mean. Do you want me to cut off your nose? Or maybe do some more carving on that crippled paw of yours? I don’t think it’s going to ever be much use to you, even if it does heal.”
Wilkie licked nervously at his lips. “Christ, mister, it ain’t me you want, it’s Andrews. He’s the one I work for.”
“Nolan Andrews?”
“Uhn-huh.”
“Where is he?”
Wilkie shrugged. “I ain’t seen him since . . .” He gestured toward his injured hand.
The front door rattled, and Ethan surged to his feet. He sheathed the Bowie, drew his revolver, but it was only Ben, ducking inside. “Ethan?”
“Back here.” He moved away from the straw pile. Ben stood at the door, peering through a crack between the planks. “What’s wrong?”
“Saw some fellas out front, couple of ’em carryin’ rifles.”
Joel swore and cocked Finch’s Colt, pointing it at Wilkie’s head. “Let’s kill this bastard and get the hell outta here.”
“Hold on,” Ethan said, watching Ben. “Where’d you see these men?”
“Across the street. There’s a coal shed over there they were ducking behind.”
Ethan remembered the shed, had taken advantage of it himself before approaching Merrick’s house yesterday. “Check out back,” he told Ben. “Joel, keep your finger off that trigger. We might need that pile of dung for a hostage if things get tight.” He went to the front door, put his eye to the same crack Ben had used. The street in front of the Merrick house was empty. Maybe a little too empty. He studied the coal shed across the street but saw nothing out of the ordinary.
“Ethan, there’s a couple back here, too!” Ben called.
“Keep your voice down,” Joel scolded.
But it was too late. The men out front must have heard him, and knew they had been spotted. Even as Ethan watched, a tall cowboy stepped out from behind the coal shed and fired a shot at Merrick’s barn. The bullet hit the wide front door several feet from Ethan, but the hard smack of lead into wood spooked their horses. The Appaloosa bolted first, then the sorrel and bay, heads thrown high and to the side to avoid the trailing reins. Ethan cursed as he watched the Appaloosa round the corner of the Merrick house, his Winchester and extra ammunition still on the saddle.
Joel cursed, too, and Ben looked like he was going to bawl. “They got us trapped, Eth!” Ben cried. “What’re we gonna do?”
“You can shut your trap, for one thing,” Joel spat. “Dammit, Ben, you’re more help to our enemies than you are to us with that big mouth of yours.”
“Both of you shut up,” Ethan snapped, backing away from the wall. The barn was solidly built, but it was made of cottonwood planks, and even a moderately powerful cartridge would likely penetrate them. “I recognized that cowboy,” he said. “His name’s Clint. He’s been acting like he’s Kestler’s right hand.”
“That means Kestler’s out there, too, or soon will be,” Joel said.
Ethan came back to where Wilkie was still sitting on his bedroll. The gunman looked considerably more sober now than when Ethan and Joel first confronted him. “Start talking, Wilkie,” Ethan said coldly.
“I work for Nolan Andrews. Met him some years back in Colorado when we was both workin’ for the Mine Owners Union.”
“Skull busters?”
Wilkie shrugged. “Some called us that.”
“I don’t care what they called him in Colorado,” Joel said. “I want to know what he’s doing here.”
“Nolan sent for me. Said he’d been hired to run off some rustlers, and that he’d pay us a hundred dollars a month plus expenses. Said it wouldn’t take long. That’s why he was payin’ so good.”
“What rustlers?” Ethan asked.
“Them squatters down on the Marias. Hell, it was good money and the law didn’t seem to care one way or t’other, long as we kept our noses clean in town.”
“Who does Nolan Andrews work for?”
“He never said no names, but we met us a citified dude out on the range one time who was ridin’ a Lazy-K horse. Nolan said he was from Bismarck.”
Ethan scowled. “From Bismarck, riding one of Kestler’s horses?”
“I’m tellin’ you what I saw, Wilder. Nolan plays his cards close to his vest. Me ’n’ the boys figure he’s makin’ a lot more money outta this job than we are, but, hell, we’re doin’ all right.” He looked down at his bandaged hand. “Was, anyway.”
“What are you doing in Merrick’s barn?”
“Kestler’s got some kinda tie to Merrick . . . something about his kid bein’ sweet on the daughter.”
“What about Vic? Who shot him?”
“One of the boys in the barn, I reckon. I was down by the crik, if you recollect properly. We didn’t know he was your brother, though. We was . . . well, you was supposed to be the only one out there. Least that’s the way we had it figured.”
“So when Vic walked out the door that morning, you thought it was me?”
Wilkie nodded, then ducked his head.
Ben had been listening to the conversation from the rear of the barn. Now he came over. “What about Pa?”
When Wilkie didn’t reply, Ethan kicked the bottom of his foot, hard. “What about it, Wilkie? Did you kill Jacob Wilder, too, then try to frame a boy for it?”
After a pause, the gunman said: “I reckon that about says it all. Was just the old man . . . your pa . . . when we got there. Nolan was determined to get him to sign a quit-claim deed to his land, but the stubborn old fool wouldn’t do it.”
“So you killed him?”
“Nolan did.”
“Then framed Ben for the murder?”
“Ike caught sight of him sneaking in the back way, so we circled around and cornered him.”
“Whose idea was it to frame him for Pa’s murder?” Ethan asked doggedly.
“That was Nolan’s idea, too.” Wilkie looked up pleadingly. “Just about any plan that came up was his. The rest of us was just followin’ orders.”
“Even if it meant killing innocent men and women?”
Wilkie’s voice dropped to a whisper. “We was hired to run off rustlers and illegal squatters, and that’s what we did. We gave ’em all fair warning, though. They knew what’d happen if they didn’t get.”
Ben made a small noise in his throat. Ethan glanced at him. Ben had spotted the carbine Ethan had tossed aside earlier. He picked it up and brought it over, his face twisted in fresh anguish. Ethan looked at the gun and his expression turned to stone. It was a pump action carbine, .32 caliber.
Numbly Ethan put his hand in his pocket, fingers roaming the misshapened lump of lead Doc Carver had dug from Jacob Wilder’s chest. His gaze bore into Wilkie. The gunman looked back in terror.
“W-What are you gonna do, Wilder?”
“I’m going to cut your worthless throat,” Ethan replied calmly.
“Now you’re talking,” Joel growled.
Ethan stepped closer, pushing through a red mist of fury. Wilkie raised his hands defensively and Ethan grabbed the bad one, bending it back until fresh blood spurted from the wound, resoaking the already stained bandage. Wilkie cried out shrilly, and Ethan slid the Bowie from its sheath.
“Ethan?”
He stopped, turned. Ben stood a few feet away, looking puzzled. “Are you gonna kill him?”
“That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?” Ethan asked harshly.
Ben shook his head. “Not like this.”
“Do you
want to shoot him?” Joel asked. He nodded at the carbine in Ben’s hands. “Go ahead, do it.”
Ben glanced at the .32, then tossed it away. He looked at Ethan, eyes brimming tears. “Ethan?” he whispered.
A tremor shook Ethan’s lanky frame. Wilkie was on his back, eyes squeezed shut in fear and pain. With a ragged cry, Ethan threw the gunman’s hand away, stepping back in revulsion.
“What the hell?” Joel asked, dumbfounded. He raised his revolver. “If you ain’t gonna do it, big Brother, then . . .”
“No,” Ethan nearly gasped. He was staring at Ben, at the sudden redemption shining in his brother’s eyes. “We’re not killers, Joel. Not like Andrews and his scum.”
Joel’s jaw seemed to come unhinged. “So we’re just gonna let this snake slither away?”
“No, we’re going to turn him over to the law.”
“So some rich-ass attorney can set him free?”
“So that trash like this can get what’s coming to them legally. If we don’t, we’re no better than they are.”
“God dammit, Ethan, Pa is kickin’ in his grave right now, and you know it. He’s roaring to get let loose so he can do what’s got to be done if his sons ain’t got enough backbone to do it for him.”
“Pa’s dead, Joel, and . . . times have changed.”
Joel’s face hardened. He lifted his revolver, muzzle pointed at Wilkie’s head. Ethan didn’t speak. Neither did Ben, and Wilkie’s eyes were still tightly closed. Finally Joel lowered the battered Colt. “I hope to hell you know what you’re doing,” he told Ethan savagely.
Ethan nodded. He hoped so, too.
Then a shout came from the street. “Ethan! Ethan Wilder! Are you in there?”
“It’s Burke,” Joel said dully.
Ethan sheathed his Bowie.
“Ethan Wilder! If you’re in there, answer me!”
“Get over in that corner,” Ethan told Ben. “Keep an eye on the back lot and the west side of the barn. Joel, you do the same in the other corner. Watch the front and side. And both of you keep an eye on this one.” He tipped his head toward Wilkie. “If he tries anything, kill him.”
“This is your last chance, Ethan!” Jeff called.
Ethan walked to the front door, peered through the crack. Jeff stood in the middle of the street, his revolver still holstered, hat cocked at an awkward angle above his bandaged scalp. Rifle barrels seemed to bristle from the coal shed wall, at least the half that Ethan could see, and probably twice that many covering the barn from other directions.
Wild Side of the River Page 17