“It figures you would take me from behind,” Lin said to their boss.
“That will cost you,” Seth Montfort snapped. He cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted to several men over near a long, low building. “Mr. Lassiter! Fetch Mr. Stone from the bunkhouse and be quick about it!”
“Will do!”
Montfort approached and stood over Lin. “I warned you. I made it clear I have a particular interest in Etta June Cather. I will not brook interference.”
“I have an interest myself,” Lin said. Thrusting his legs up and out, he planted both boot heels in Seth Montfort’s groin.
Montfort bleated and doubled over. “You bastard!” He would have fallen, only Andy vaulted from the saddle and leaped to support him.
Wiley pointed his six-shooter at Lin’s head. “Not another twitch out of you, mister!”
Lin was content to lie there and enjoy the commotion he caused. Punchers and gun sharks came running from all directions, among them one he recognized: Stone. With Stone was a tall bundle of rawhide who wore two Merwin and Hulbert revolvers, tied low. They shouldered through the gathering ring, and Stone walked up to Lin, drew his pistol and jammed the muzzle against Lin’s temple.
“Say the word and I will blow a window in his skull, Mr. Montfort.”
Seth Montfort could not answer. Bent half over, sputtering and gasping, he was the same color as a strawberry.
“What happened?” Stone asked Wiley, and after the puncher explained, Stone grinned down at Lin. “You have stepped in it now.” His gaze flicked to Lin’s hips. “And you rode in here not wearing a sixgun? What kind of fool are you?”
“The kind who does not kill for money,” Lin said.
The pistolero wearing the two Merwin and Hulbert revolvers went to step past Stone. “Let me have him. I will take him to the blacksmith shop and work on him with tongs and hot coals.”
“That is for the boss to decide,” Stone said.
Montfort was still a deep shade of red. “The whip!” he wheezed. “I want the bullwhip.”
A man ran off.
Lin focused on Wiley. The older puncher did not appear happy at the turn of events. “This is how you treat a hand who was only doing his job?”
Stone gouged the barrel of his revolver hard into Lin. “Shut up, you. You will not speak unless we say you can.”
“That will be the day.”
“Why don’t you wear a six-gun?” Wiley asked.
“What difference does it make?” From Lassiter. “Anyone stupid enough not to go around heeled shouldn’t stir up those who are.”
“It was me who roped him,” young Andy said proudly. “The boss pointed at my rope and I guessed right away what he wanted.”
Lassiter eyed him up and down. “Make a lot out of it, why don’t you, small potatoes?”
“Here, now,” Wiley said. “The boy was only saying.”
“When he has bedded down his first man, he can crow,” Lassiter said. “Until then, he should not boast before his betters.”
Lin was an interested listener. The punchers and the hired killers were not getting along. It was to be expected. Cowpunchers earned their pay the honest way: they worked for it—and worked hard. Gun sharks liked the easy life, and paid for their whiskey and women by putting lead into people. Punchers generally held shootists in low regard, and the feeling was mutual.
Seth Montfort slowly straightened. Twin fires danced in his eyes as he said, “Before I am done with you, Mr. Gray, you will regret the day you were born.”
“You talk big when you have the advantage,” Lin said. He felt surprisingly calm.
“What would you prefer?” Montfort asked. “That I put myself against you in personal combat? I am not a fighter—not in the sense that Mr. Stone and Mr. Lassiter are. I hire men like them to fight for me.”
“In other words, you are yellow.”
Everyone stopped talking and moving, and all eyes swung toward the lord of the Bar M. To call a man a coward was the supreme insult. In most instances it resulted in a flash of firearms and the thunder of shots.
Seth Montfort’s lips twitched. “You amaze me. It appears you do not know when to keep your mouth shut. But by all means, keep provoking me. Your comeuppance will be that much sweeter.”
As if that were a cue, the hand who had run off returned nearly out of breath and thrust a bullwhip out. “Here you go, boss.”
Montfort took hold of the handle and smiled at Lin. “I hope you can take a lot of pain.”
Chapter 15
A bullwhip had many uses. Mule skinners used them to drive mule teams. Bull whackers used them to keep their oxen moving. Cowmen used them on occasion, although most preferred a rope to a whip.
It was common knowledge that someone skilled with a bullwhip could flay the flesh from his or her victim a tiny piece at a time. Flay the flesh right down to the bone.
Lin never had cause to use a bullwhip himself, but he had seen others wield one, and he had been impressed by how precise the whip could be. He made up his mind that he was not going to lie there and let them whittle him down to a blood-soaked ruin. He would resist to his dying breath.
Accordingly, when Seth Montfort raised his arm to give the whip a practice swing, Lin pushed up off the ground, casting the rope from him as he stood. He had loosened it while he lay there, and no one had noticed. Everyone was watching Montfort.
Lin plowed into the punchers, bowling them aside and knocking several over, making for the buttermilk. He broke clear of the ring and ran faster. Behind him curses and shouts erupted. His hand was on the saddle horn and he was pulling himself up when there was a loud crack and a sharp stinging sensation about his neck.
The whip, Lin realized, and snatched at the coils around his throat. His fingers had barely touched them when he was brutally wrenched to the ground. He rolled, felt the whip slide off and rose to his hands and knees.
The punchers and guns for hire were standing well back. Their excited, sweaty faces betrayed their bloodlust.
“Do it again, boss!” Lassiter cried.
Seth Montfort stood with his legs planted wide. He grinned as he moved his arm and the whip slithered like a snake. “Did that hurt, Mr. Gray? I assure you it is only the beginning.”
“You might want to have your men hold me down to make it easier for you,” Lin taunted, stalling as he girded his legs.
“That will not be necessary,” Montfort said smugly. “You see, while I am not all that adept with a pistol or a rifle, I am quite proficient with my leather friend here. I saw one used years ago and got hold of a whip to practice with in my spare time.” He snapped his arm and the lash streaked at Lin’s face but stopped a few inches short with a loud crack.
Reflexively, Lin drew back.
Seth Montfort laughed. “See what I mean? Where do you want me to start?”
“On yourself,” Lin said.
Montfort laughed louder. “You have sand. I will grant you that. But courage is never enough when you are bucking impossible odds.”
“You sure do like to hear yourself talk.” Lin’s every muscle was taut.
“And you are one of those who does not know when to keep his mouth shut,” Montfort responded. He sidled to the left, moving his arm in slow circles. Suddenly the whip became a blur.
Lin sidestepped, then did the thing he hoped Montfort least expected: he charged him. Shoulders lowered, he hurtled at the rancher, but he had taken only one stride when the whip hissed and his ankles were yanked off the ground. He crashed onto his elbows, wincing from the pain, as the whip crawled toward its holder.
“That’s the way, Mr. Montfort!” Andy hollered.
The faces of Stone and Lassiter were among those aglow with vicious glee at Lin’s expense. He was startled to spot Griggs, as well. So much for the man’s word. Griggs smiled when Lin saw him.
“Did you really think I would ride off, mister? I owe you.”
Lin got his hands under him. Montfort had continued to cir
cle and was now to his left. Lin swung toward him and rose into a crouch.
“I do so enjoy playing with you like this,” Montfort said. “I could do it all day, but I do not have the time to spare. I have set wheels in motion that must be attended to.”
Lin wondered what he meant by that. The distraction cost him. The whip cleaved the air, and a sharp pain in his cheek caused him to jerk his head back. A warm, wet sensation spread down over his jaw. He touched his cheek, and when he drew his fingertips away, they were streaked with scarlet.
Whoops and cheers rose to the sky. Some of the onlookers urged Montfort to take out an eye or slash off an ear.
“Do you hear them?” Montfort grinned. “Which part of you will it be? Decisions, decisions.”
“Go to hell,” Lin said.
“You first.”
The bullwhip exploded into life. Montfort was going for his face. Lin got his arms up, but the whip sliced through his shirt to his skin, drawing more blood. Lin sidestepped and ducked a heartbeat before the whip sizzled over his head. But he could not avoid them all. Again and again and again the lash came at him, striking his arms, his body, his legs. He could not twist or dodge fast enough. Blood stained his shirt, his pants. He took it for as long as he could. Then he threw himself at his tormentor, hoping to catch Seth Montfort off guard.
The whip was lightning. It coiled around Lin’s legs and pulled them out from under him. He grabbed for it, but the whip uncoiled and was gone in a twinkling.
Montfort was having a grand time. “I had forgotten how much fun this is. I just might give Cody Dixon and Aven Magill a taste of the lash too.”
Lin tried once more. He made it halfway to Montfort before the whip brought him down. He sought to grab it before Montfort could draw it back, but the thing was uncannily quick.
“You are fine entertainment,” Seth Montfort complimented him. “I want to thank you for showing up today.”
Lin glanced at the buttermilk, then his saddlebags. Chancy had pleaded with him before he left to strap on what was in them before he rode to the Bar M, but Lin had refused. Chancy could not seem to understand that to Lin killing did not come naturally. He deeply regretted taking the lives of those two men that day the banker came to evict them. It did not help that the men were about to shoot his brother.
Agony in Lin’s left shoulder brought him out of himself. The whip had drawn more blood. He dug his fingers into the soil, and coiled.
Montfort, showing off for his men, cracked the whip in the air a few times. He turned toward them, saying, “I will let you take a vote. Should it be his nose or one of his ears?”
It was the opening Lin needed. He leaped at Montfort’s back, his arms spread wide to catch him in a bear hug.
“Mr. Montfort! Look out!” someone shouted.
Seth Montfort spun, but he was not completely around when Lin slammed into him. They crashed down. Montfort heaved and kicked and attempted to knee Lin in the groin, and Lin retaliated by ramming his forehead into Montfort’s multiple chins. It stunned Montfort; he went momentarily limp.
Lin grabbed for the whip. Montfort did not wear a gun, so it would have to do.
Boots thudded. Hands fell on Lin’s arms, shoulders and legs. He fought, but Montfort had been right; the odds were impossible. He was punched and kicked. A blow to the back of his head sent his senses reeling. When the world stopped spinning, he was on his back with half a dozen punchers and shootists on top of him. He bucked but could not dislodge them.
The sun was full on Lin’s face, blinding him. He squinted against the glare. Suddenly a shadow fell across him.
Seth Montfort was rubbing his jaw, the bullwhip at his side. “You never give up, do you?”
Lin did not reply.
“I could have you shot, but that might upset Etta June enough for her to go find a federal marshal,” Montfort said. “I don’t want that. So I will compromise.” Montfort stopped and waited as if expecting a question. When Lin did not say anything, he went on. “You must be taught a lesson. One people will talk about for years. But before I give the word, listen well.” Montfort squatted. “When you recover, leave the Big Horns and never come back. Take your brother along, or he will suffer the same as you.”
Lin broke his silence. “I will not desert Etta June.”
Seth Montfort looked at his men, and then up at the sky, and then down at Lin. “You try to be reasonable with some people…,” he said to no one in particular. Suddenly he punched Lin in the cheek, nearly snapping Lin’s head around. “Get this through your thick skull. She is mine. Her land is mine. Not you or anyone else can stop that from happening. Not even her.”
“You have no right,” Lin said.
“Why? Because I have not slipped a ring on her finger? Because we have not said our vows? I do not need to. She still has my brand on her.” Montfort smiled and nodded. “Yes. That is how it is. I have branded her as I would a cow. To insert yourself as you have done is the same as trying to rustle my cattle.”
“Etta June is no cow.”
“For all your grit, you are thick of wit,” Montfort said, and stood. “Gentlemen,” he said, addressing his punchers and leather slappers. “This jackass refuses to listen. An example must be made. Pistol-whip him, if you please.”
“Which one of us should do it?” Stone asked.
“All of you.”
“All?”
“Every last one.”
“That many hitting on him, we could damn near kill him,” Stone said.
“Your point?”
“I thought you wanted him kept alive.”
“Barely alive will do.”
Stone hefted his revolver. “I don’t much like getting blood on my six-shooter. Can’t we use clubs instead?”
“Pistols are the tradition,” Montfort said, and laughed. “When you are done, throw him over his horse and send him on his way.” He walked toward the house.
“Your heard the man, boys,” Stone said. “Unlimber your hardware, and we will get to it. Don’t hit his throat or his mouth if you can help it. It wouldn’t do for him to choke to death.”
The faces above Lin were grim. Several men had palmed their revolvers and were wagging them in anticipation.
“Let’s get it over with,” Lassiter said.
Lin hoped that those on top of him would get off, but none did. The first to hit him was a scrawny puncher on his chest. The barrel caught him across the forehead, and the world swirled madly.
Another blow landed, and another, points of pain in a mist of confusion. Lin nearly screamed when torment racked his knee. His ribs, his elbows, his wrists, his legs. So many blows were raining down, he lost all sense of the number. Pain was in his every sinew—in every bone. He became a welter of throbbing hurt.
Inner darkness nipped at Lin’s mind. He struggled to stay conscious. His head rocked to the right and then to the left. The darkness spread, to where all that was left of him was a tiny voice deep inside—a voice growing fainter by the second. I will kill you all, the voice said.
No, I will not, Lin thought.
It was his last.
* * *
A sound penetrated the darkness.
Sound, and movement.
Lin felt himself sway, felt something pressed against his belly. Gradually it dawned on him that he was lying facedown over a horse. His buttermilk, most likely. He opened his eyes and was overcome with fear; he was blind! The world around him was as dark as the bottom of a well. He blinked, or tried to, and realized his eyes were swollen almost shut.
The sound was repeated. Someone was groaning. With a start he realized it was him.
Lin became more alert.
Pain, pain, everywhere. Such pain as Lin had never known. Pain such as he had never imagined. From head to toe, front and back—pain, pain, pain. It nearly blacked him out again.
Lin tried to move but couldn’t. He was able, with an effort, to move his swollen fingers, but his arms and legs were locked stiff. The my
stery was explained when he twisted his head. His wrists were tied. Judging by a tightness around his ankles, he could tell that they were as well. He tried to move his arms and legs but couldn’t. He suspected that whoever bound him had passed the rope from his wrists, under the horse, to his ankles.
Lin craned his neck to see the sky. Stars glittered in the firmament. The position of the Big Dipper told him that dawn would break in a few hours. He had been unconscious most of the day and night.
He glimpsed trees—a lot of trees. A forest, evidently.
Lin licked his lips. They were puffy and split and caked with dry blood. Someone had hit on him the mouth, after all. That his teeth were still there was a miracle.
Lin willed his mouth to move. In a voice that was a dry croak, he said, “Whoa, boy.” The buttermilk was well trained, and ordinarily that would be enough, along with a slight tug on the reins.
The horse did not stop.
Lin wriggled and strained. Excruciating torment shot through his body, and he subsided. He noticed that his saddle scabbard was empty; they had taken his rifle.
Somewhere in the night an owl hooted.
Lin peered about him but could not begin to guess where he was. He figured that whoever tied him had given the buttermilk a smack on the rump and sent it galloping off. He cleared his throat. “Whoa, fella!”
To Lin’s delight, the buttermilk came to a stop. But his delight proved short-lived.
Out of the nearby woods came an ominous growl.
Chapter 16
The Big Horn Mountains were home to many meat eaters. Mountain lions, bears, wolves, coyotes, a few wolverines—all roamed the range, and all craved the succulent taste of flesh. Normally, though, most of them ran off at the sight or smell of a human. Normally, but not always.
Lin felt the buttermilk tremble slightly and heard it sniff the air.
The creature in the woods growled a second time.
Lin had encountered bears and mountain lions and wolves before. A bear’s growl was low and rumbling; mountain lions tended to snarl and hiss; wolves sounded more like big dogs than either bears or mountains lions. He tried to identify the beast in the forest by its growls but, as yet, could not.
Ralph Compton Ride the Hard Trail Page 11