There were swift tripping footsteps from the doorway to his right and Granny Haxer emerged from the shadowed corridor that led to the stables. Her face was gleaming with sweat. She hurried to join Johnny. "Sorry I'm late, boss man. Those damned horses just wouldn't co-operate."
"Forget it. Take up your position outside. Make sure you leave a clean field of fire for the twins and HMK." Johnny hesitated. "On second thoughts, I'd better go with you. They're so well hidden, you probably won't be able to see them. And I've given them orders to keep their heads down until Tarkettle's safely past."
Granny Haxer paused to scoop up her weapon - an impressive silver-filigreed, double-barrelled shotgun that was almost as long as she was tall - and a hat full of shotgun shells, which she had left beside one of the troughs. Then she trotted towards the tall doors of the fort with Johnny at her side. "I know you're pissed off at me about stabling the horses, son. But I just couldn't bear the thought of them poor innocent beasts taking a stray round."
"Don't worry about it. It's a good idea having them out of the way. They might have made a noise, or Tarkettle's burro might have smelled them. Or they could have got in the way when the shooting started. It was a smart move putting them in the stables."
Granny Haxer grinned as she trotted along at Johnny's side, heading for the doors of the fort. "You're just being kind to an old lady. But I appreciate it. I'm just sorry those damned, fleabitten nags took longer to get bedded down than I expected and-"
There was a low, urgent whistle from the battlements above. Johnny immediately stopped and stood still. "What was that?" said Granny.
"Middenface. Tarkettle's coming out of the dry river basin now. He'll be able to see us in a few seconds." As he spoke, Johnny hurried to the big doors and swung them shut. He looked at Granny Haxer. "It's too late for you to take up your position. You'll have to stay inside."
"Shitfire!" said Granny Haxer, a savage grimace of disappointment on her wizened face. "Those damned horses."
"You stick with me now. We'll wait on the steps overlooking the courtyard."
"But I've got this double-barrelled fowling piece," said Granny. "It's no good at that kind of distance. It just doesn't have the reach."
"You'll have to forget about it, then."
"Let me go back to the arsenal. That fella's got all kinds of guns in there."
"Too late, Granny. Here, take this." Johnny gave her the six gun that he was wearing in a holster strapped to his hip, a Colt Army .45. That left him with the rolling block Remington sporting rifle he had slung over his shoulder, a double for the one HMK had chosen. She had opted for a ladylike .22 calibre model, whereas Johnny had gone for the .58 calibre, the most massive configuration the weapon came in.
"Are you sure?" said Granny Haxer, taking the Colt revolver and studying it.
"Just don't shoot me with it." Johnny turned and loped back across the courtyard, to the far wall and the steps leading up it. Granny jogged behind him, hurrying to catch up.
Middenface had turned to the wall overlooking the courtyard when he had whistled the second signal, so he had seen the business with Johnny and Granny Haxer. He cursed the old woman for being so slow and spoiling Johnny's plan, which had called for her to be with the ambush party outside. Who knew what complications would ensue from being short-handed in the rocks outside the fort? And he had cursed her doubly when he saw Johnny hand the old crone his sidearm. So what if the stupid old biddy had chosen a useless weapon of her own? It had been her choice. Let her live with it. But, no, that wasn't Johnny's way.
So now they were launching the ambush with an inadequate complement of men outside the fort and with Johnny short of a gun inside. Plans had gone bloodily wrong as the result of smaller changes than that. Middenface kept cursing as he turned back to the outer wall of the battlements and lifted his binoculars again, careful to shadow both lenses with the palms of his hands as Johnny had suggested, to prevent Tarkettle seeing the tell tale gleam of reflection.
The man on the burro leapt into view again, startlingly close now. For the first time, Middenface could get a really good look at him.
Preacher Tarkettle was a small man wearing a black frock coat, buttoned tight against the cold of the desert morning, with black and white checked trousers and pointy black shoes with big, silver buckles on them. Middenface couldn't see a gun on him, but there might well be one, or more, under that frock coat. On the back of the burro, behind his saddle, there was a cylindrical bundle with a tartan green and blue blanket on the outside, secured with knotted lengths of yellow rope. There could well be a rifle in that bundle.
If there was, it wouldn't be easy to get it out and ready in a hurry, any more than it would be to draw a handgun from under that tightly buttoned black coat. But Middenface had no intention of letting himself be drawn into a false sense of security. They'd already seen how deadly effective this man could be. Even if he rode into the fort stark naked with a flower between his teeth, Middenface intended to keep a gun on him every step of the way.
The burro made its slow way up the rubble-strewn path towards the fort, seeming to chose each step with deliberation. Sitting, rocking on its back in a relaxed posture, Tarkettle seemed to be in no particular hurry. Middenface could clearly make out the man's features now. He remembered the first time he'd seen him, on the screen in Asdoel Zo's study.
Middenface felt a cold flutter of disquiet. Preacher Tarkettle's sharp-featured face was like that of an oily rodent, chinless with a long pointed nose. The thick, sensual red lips that Middenface remembered were parted and pursed as if the man was whistling as he rode along on his burro in the desert morning. His tousled, greasy hair fluttered in the breeze, stirring in disarray over his tiny ears. He was wearing the same misshapen black felt stovepipe hat that Middenface remembered. And it might well have been the same frayed and stained white shirt with a pearl pin across the collar, and the same narrow, black tie.
The narrow eyes flicked upwards and for a moment seemed to be staring right into Middenface's eyes, boring inexorably into his skull, his brain, his soul, reading all his secrets. Middenface backed away from the almost physical impact of that gaze. Was it possible that Tarkettle had seen him, crouched here over the battlements, binoculars in his hands? Middenface forced himself to remain calm and stay motionless. The only way that Tarkettle was likely to see him was if he was foolish enough to make a sudden move, and allow the sun to flicker across the lenses of his binoculars.
Tarkettle glanced down again, and Middenface sighed with relief at no longer having that dark gaze drilling into his own. The black felt of the man's hat filled the binoculars and Middenface lowered them to get an estimate of how close he actually was. He was startled to see that the burro was already wending its way up the last curve of the primitive path that led up to the fort. Tarkettle seemed cheerfully unaware of the fact that he was riding into a trap. Middenface saw a faint stir of motion in the rocks to Tarkettle's right and he held his breath. HMK was rising up behind a boulder, Remington in her hands. Middenface cursed and tried to focus his willpower on the little woman, as if he could command her to remain still and out of sight.
But HMK was still sheltered by the bulk of the boulder, and Tarkettle showed no inclination to look in her direction anyway. He just sat, casually rocking on the back of the burro, loosely clutching its reins as the beast ambled up the rocky path. He was approaching the mass of rocks on his left where the twins Ray and Bel were waiting. Middenface murmured another blend of curses and prayers, hoping that the symbiotic siblings would stay put. From his vantage point on the battlements, he could see them kneeling in a hollow amongst the big rocks, eyes fixed on the man on the burro. But they didn't stir from their hiding place. "Good kids," whispered Middenface.
Now Tarkettle was almost at the wall of the fort itself. He rode up the path into the shadow of the building and disappeared from sight below. The only way Middenface would be able to see him was by leaning out from the battlements at a danger
ously visible angle. So instead he drew back out of sight, listening carefully. He heard the burro's hooves on the rocky path, slowing to a halt. Then he heard the man twisting on the saddle, freeing himself from it and jumping to the ground, landing with a little gasp of exhalation. His footsteps rattled on the path as he approached the doors of the fort. There was a moment's silence, during which Middenface held his breath. Had Tarkettle spotted something? Had he sensed that he was being watched?
Then Middenface heard the unearthly metallic shriek of the rusty hinges as the big doors were pushed open, and he knew everything was all right. He turned and scuttled back across the battlements, keeping low, heading for the inner wall. He peered over into the courtyard, no longer worrying about being seen. Tarkettle was riding into the jaws of their trap now. There was another pause that seemed to last for an instalment of eternity as Tarkettle apparently climbed back onto his burro to ride it into the fort. Why was the man riding it in? He'd already got off the bloody beast. Why didn't he just lead it in on foot? Middenface cursed. Who knew what the fiend had in mind? Maybe he knew an ambush was waiting for him and being saddled on his animal was part of a master plan for defeating the Strontium Dogs.
A cold shiver of apprehension tickled Middenface under his breast bone. He leaned out over the courtyard and felt sweat gathering on his chin. Tarkettle rode into the fort, his burro's hooves clipping the flagstones. Middenface could see the top of Tarkettle's black hat passing below, nodding gently with the swaying motion of the rider as he entered the courtyard. Middenface saw Stella Dysh and Slim Drago crouching behind their barrels in the shadows on either side of the open doors. He glanced at the far end of the courtyard and saw Johnny Alpha step out of the arched doorway at the top of the stone steps, Remington rifle held in his hands, Granny Haxer following him with the revolver pointed.
Middenface didn't wait to see any more. He turned and ran to the steps leading down to the courtyard. Despite what Johnny had said about his staying up here, he had no intention of missing the fun. He hit the steps at a dead run and was down them in a few bone-jolting leaps. He followed the stone spiral to the right, raced through the doorway and out into the sudden sunlight of the courtyard just as Johnny yelled, "Hold it! Put your hands up!"
Middenface saw the expression of astonishment on Tarkettle's face as he looked up and saw Johnny Alpha and Granny Haxer facing him at the far end of the courtyard. "Get down off that animal!" barked Johnny. Tarkettle hesitated and Johnny yelled "Now!" with such force that the man automatically obeyed. He swung down from his burro, which was stirring restlessly, spooked by the sudden appearance of strangers. Johnny trotted down the stairs, Remington held high, pointed dead at Tarkettle's chest. Granny Haxer scampered after him. Tarkettle stared at them. Then Stella Dysh and Slim rose up from behind their barrels, and Middenface ran out into the courtyard.
Preacher Tarkettle looked wildly around at the three newcomers, all with guns pointing at him, and he gave a little wordless moan. The crotch of his black and white checked trousers darkened and a puddle of urine began to gather at his feet.
The kitchen of the fort was a cool, underground room with the a smell of damp earth. Preacher Tarkettle sat on a chair in the middle of the stone floor with his hands tied behind his back and his feet tied to the two front legs of the chair, his legs spread open and the shaming stain on his crotch was plainly revealed. Middenface cringed a little every time he looked at it.
Slim Drago had been left on guard outside, although with Tarkettle captive it was a moot point who was left to be on guard against. Nonetheless, Johnny had insisted on the arrangement. The other seven members of the posse were in the kitchen. Six of them were arrayed around the room, some standing and some sitting, but every one pointing a weapon at the little man in the chair. Only Granny Haxer had her back to him. She was busy at the old black iron stove, preparing a pot of coffee. "No reason we can't be comfortable and have some nice hot Java during the interrogation," she opined.
"Interrogation," quavered the little man in the chair. "Why do you want to interrogate me?"
"We'll ask the questions," snapped Stella Dysh.
Johnny corrected her. "I'll ask the questions." He took a chair, reversed it, and sat facing Tarkettle, his powerful arms folded across the wooden back of the chair, his face expressionless.
"You don't need to interrogate me," said Tarkettle desperately. "I've already told you everything. I am indeed Tarkettle. Hieronymous John Tarkettle, called Preacher by some because of my academic lecturing style. But I had nothing to do with the destruction of your ships."
"It was the cannons on this fort that shot them down," said Middenface. "We saw them."
"Perhaps so, sir. I mean no doubt, if you say so, sir. But when was this?"
"About four days ago," said Middenface.
"Then I couldn't have had anything to do with that tragic occurrence. I've been away from this fort for the best part of a week."
"Doing what?" said Johnny.
"Surveying. You may have seen the maps of this planet in my library."
"We saw some maps."
"Then you'll know what I was doing. It's my job. Or rather my hobby, while I'm doing my official job."
"And what exactly is your official job?"
"Caretaker of this planet."
"I don't believe you," said Johnny.
"Well, no, not just a caretaker. That's not entirely correct. I'm sort of a combination caretaker, librarian, custodian and planner."
"Planner?"
"Yes, my employer wants me to study this world and plan how it could be used to enact a series of scenarios."
"Scenarios?"
"Scenarios evoking the old west, sir."
"You mean scenarios like blowing us up and shooting us one by one."
"No! Nothing like that. Educational vignettes that will capture the vibrant, lusty charm of the frontier days of the American west. Offering painless and colourful history lessons set in the grandeur of the desert wilderness of this world."
"A likely story," cackled Granny Haxer. She spat on the hot surface of the stove and listened to the spittle hiss. Nodding with satisfaction, she set the coffee pot onto the searing metal. "Be ready soon. Do you want me to pour a cup for the prisoner, Johnny?"
"Please," said Tarkettle. "Why am I your prisoner? I don't understand it. I don't understand any of this. You say that you're a posse..."
"What do we look like, sonny?" said Granny Haxer, fetching a rattling assortment of tin cups from one of the cupboards fixed to the white-washed stone walls. "We're the most dreaded, cold-blooded, sharp-shooting bounty hunters in this part of the spiral arm."
"Yes, yes, you certainly look the part. I just don't understand why anyone would want to send such a distinguished delegation after me."
"Because you murdered his family," said Johnny, glancing over at Middenface as he spoke. "You murdered a man's children and his wife."
"That's preposterous. I'm an academic. I've published numerous papers and several highly regarded books."
"That's why you've got such a well equipped arsenal," said Johnny, lifting the Remington from his lap and pressing the barrel gently against Tarkettle's forehead. The man squeezed his eyes shut and began to weep.
"Not to mention fully functional cannons up there on your battlements, with plenty of powder and shot," said Middenface.
"And a healthy stash of dynamite, too," added Hari Mata Karma. "In fact, there's an entire cave system under this place that's just packed with gunpowder and explosives."
"That's the replica powder magazine," said Tarkettle desperately. "It's just for show."
"Sounds pretty damn lethal just for show," said Johnny. But he lowered the gun from the man's forehead and returned it to his lap.
"My employer insisted on installing it," said Tarkettle, his voice trembling and frail. "That is the raison d'être of this world. A well-stocked, authentic recreation of the old west. Like a living museum."
"Well, th
ere's going to be one fewer living exhibit in this museum if we don't believe your answers," said Johnny, casually studying his Remington.
"Please. What can I do to make you believe me?"
"You can look me in the eyes," said Johnny. And he raised his eerie pale gaze towards Tarkettle. The little man blinked nervously, but gradually lifted his own moist eyes to look into the mutant's.
"Tell me the name of your employer," said Johnny.
"He's called Asdoel Zo. He's a wealthy man with an educated interest in the old west. An interest that I share. You might say he is a patron of the arts, or rather a patron of the study of history."
"And you killed his wife and children," said Johnny, his gaze relentlessly fixed on the other man's eyes.
"No! I've never met his family. I've never even met him. All our communications have been via computer. He advertised for an academic with an interest in this period of American history, and I applied for the job and I was accepted. My salary is paid directly into my bank account. I've never met the man. Please believe me."
Johnny stared silently at the man for a moment longer. Then he rose abruptly from his chair, turning away from Tarkettle. "I do believe you," he said.
"You can't be serious," snarled HMK.
"He's obviously lying!" said Stella Dysh.
"Johnny's generally right about these things," said Middenface, mildly. "He can look into a man and see the truth."
"Mystical bullshit," said Stella Dysh.
"For once I'm inclined to agree with our smelly friend," said HMK.
Granny Haxer bustled over to the stove with a stack of tin cups and started pouring coffee from the bubbling pot. "I reckon you should listen to Johnny," she said. "After all, he's the man in charge here."
"In charge of getting us killed by the sound of it. This murderous Tarkettle spouts some lies to us and Johnny Alpha just rolls over and believes him." HMK looked around at the others for support. Stella Dysh nodded vigorously, but Ray and Bel refused to meet her gaze. HMK turned to Middenface.
Day of the Dogs Page 17