Tucker's Justice (Wild West Cowboys Book 1)

by Maggie Carpenter

  “Joe!”

  The panicked shriek pierced his brain. It was Ned, a gunslinger he’d known many years, and as fear gushed through his veins, he had no desire to run to Ned’s aid. All he wanted was to dash away as fast as he could, but he didn’t know if he should run forward or back.

  “Joe, Joe!”

  Ned’s second cry wasn’t the only wail he heard, but it was close, very close.

  “I’m the hell outta here,” Joe grunted, and turning around, he bolted back down the path, but he’d only traveled a short distance when something caught his ankle, pitching him forward. Unable to stop himself, he tumbled to the ground.

  A searing, unfathomable pain sliced through his shoulder. He tried to move and realized, with horror, that he was impaled on a wooden stake. His howl reverberated through the thicket, but something touched his leg, and utterly panic-stricken, his heart banging, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps, he looked over his shoulder. A skull was looming him, and a moment before he lost consciousness, the tough, hardened gunslinger felt a flood of warm urine soak his trousers.

  A short distance away, filled with indescribable dread, another member of the gang was desperately trying to escape the small forest, tripping and falling as he ran. Charging between two trees, an inexplicable sting suddenly burned across his upper torso, stopping him in his tracks. Heavily panting, clenching his fists, calling on his last bit of courage, he dared to look down; blood was pouring from his chest. Uttering odd noises of pain and shock, lifting his eyes he searched the darkness; there was nothing to see. His arm madly shaking, he reached out and moved his hand up and down and around, looking for what had cut him, but again, there was nothing.

  “Sinner! I will slice you in two.”

  It had been a whispered threat in a gravelly voice, and shifting his gaze, he saw the specter of bones. The malicious murderer felt his head begin wildly spinning, and with the sounds of wails echoing around him, he fell into a heap on the dry, spiky branches of the thicket floor.

  Moments later the cacophony of terrified yowling mushroomed. Some men were groaning in pain, others were screeching in terror as the monster zipped past them, but there was one man who wasn’t doing any of those things. His name was Victor, though people called him Iceman, and he was McGill’s second-in-command.

  When the tumult had begun, he’d been near the edge of the thicket where Tucker had entered, and he’d walked calmly out onto the side of the hill. Standing completely still, he’d been listening to the commotion. It was another ambush. There might not be guns blazing, but it was still an ambush. The question was, how could it have happened? Their plans had been closely guarded. There was only one answer; the traitor was one of the elite group. When it was over he’d interrogate those still alive and uncover the culprit, but judging by the horrified howls, he wasn’t sure there’d be many survivors. His first order of business, however, was climbing up to the house to find Patrick, and if Baker was there, he’d tell Patrick they should just shoot him and be done with it.

  Turning away from the trees, he started his trek, but paused; there was movement ahead of him. Taking a few steps forward and peering through the dark at the vague form, he realized it was a horse, a big horse, a very big horse, and it was as black as the sky overhead. The area wasn’t a fenced paddock. Something wasn’t right.

  A whistle sang through the air, and without warning the horse suddenly rose up on its back legs, pawing at the air with its front feet. Victor watched, almost in awe of the magnificent creature, but when the horse dropped back down, it turned its head in Victor’s direction, and a moment later, took off at a full gallop heading straight toward him.

  Breaking into a sprint, Victor ran toward the trees. With his giant stride and great speed, the horse would be upon in him seconds, but just as Victor reached the thicket he spied someone dressed in a long black hooded robe standing directly in his path. Had the priest come back? Looking over his shoulder, he saw the giant horse bearing down on him. The trees, he needed to be in the trees, and pulling the gun from his holster, he readied himself to deal with the man in the robe.

  “Hey, priest,” he yelled, hurrying forward. “Priest.”

  Slowly the hooded figure turned around.

  “What in God’s name…?” Victor muttered. “I’m dreamin’, I’ve gotta be dreamin’.”

  The skeletal figure raised his arms in surrender, but suddenly, a rod shot forth from its right hand. Victor’s eyes bulged, a cold chill surged down his back, his legs were wobbly, and his fingers were shaking so badly he was barely able to grip his gun. The horse snorted, and Victor jumped, then felt the hot heavy breath on his back; it was standing right behind him.

  “Who-who-who a-a-are you,” he stammered, unable to pull his eyes off the demon. “Wh-what a-a-are you?”

  The figure leaned forward, and in a low growl, it said:

  “I am justice. I am death.”

  The rod swung through the air, catching Victor on the side of his head. The gun fell from his hand, and as he hit the ground, he glimpsed the grim reaper leaping onto the black horse and galloping into the night.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  When Patrick McGill and Kenny Bragg had arrived at Duke’s door, Duke had appeared appropriately startled and had invited them into the foyer. In a frighteningly cold manner, Patrick had told him the time had come for Duke to decide; either join him, or Duke’s house would be torched, he would be killed, and his daughter? What would happen to her was anyone’s guess. Kenny had been tempted to step up and assure Duke that he would take care of her, but Patrick had never seemed so menacing, and Duke probably wouldn’t take kindly to the reassurances, so Kenny had kept his mouth well and truly shut.

  “I’ve gotta bunkhouse full of loyal men,” Duke had declared. “What makes you think you can just burn down my house? We’ll fight you, no matter how many guns-for-hire you’ve got in your gang.”

  “Men are only loyal till they know they’re going to die,” Patrick had sneered, his Irish accent somehow making him seem even more deadly. “Come outside with me. You need to see something.”

  Expecting his thugs to be lined up in front of the thicket, McGill hustled Duke out the front door and led him across the courtyard toward the archway. It was the grand entrance to the house, and afforded an unobstructed view of the valley below. He would fire his pistol, the row of torches would flame to life, and Duke would be awestruck, but as they began their walk, strange sounds were echoing through the air.

  “What are those noises?” Duke asked, frowning at McGill. “Sounds like… I dunno… men cryin’ out? What’ve you done to my boys?”

  “I haven’t done a bloody thing,” McGill replied, then quickly added, “But I sure as hell will if they don’t join me.”

  But Patrick McGill was hiding a rush of worry. He’d heard the sound of men screaming many times, and that was exactly what the distant racket sounded like. What the hell had happened? There was, however, no gunfire, and without bullets flying, he convinced himself the human-like wails were fighting animals. He pushed Duke forward, but when they reached the archway and stood in the open in front of the house, Patrick knew something had gone horribly wrong. His gunmen weren’t lined up in front of the thicket, and the wails of the injured and terrified men were crystal clear.

  “Are all those screams supposed to be scarin’ me?” Duke asked. “Just what are you playin’ at, McGill?”

  “What’s that?” Kenny shouted, pointing across the hill.

  Halfway between the trees and where they were standing, a robed figure on a big black horse was galloping across the hill. His arm was raised in the air, carrying something long and thin.

  “How’s he ridin’?” Kenny muttered. “He ain’t got no saddle or bridle.”

  “Blazes if I know,” Duke replied, “and what’s goin’ on down in those trees?”

  “It’s that goddamned priest,” McGill growled, staring at the robed figure now zooming past them.

&nbs
p; Reaching for his gun, he pulled it from its holster, but then the figure turned its head and looked up at them; McGill’s hand froze, and the blood in his veins ran cold.

  “Whaaaaat the fuck…?” Kenny gasped, stumbling backwards and falling to the ground.

  “Dear Jesus,” Duke whispered, and immediately dropping to his knees, he closed his hands and began to recite the Lord’s Prayer.

  McGill was stupefied, and though he was trying to comprehend was he was seeing, the continuous terror-filled screams of his murderous gang was telling him only one thing; the figure was death on its black horse. The grim reaper carrying some kind of unholy scythe.

  As if hypnotized, unable to pull his eyes from the creature that whisked souls to heaven or hell, McGill’s gaze followed the thundering black horse until it had disappeared into the night. The chilling cries from the thicket, however, did not stop. What barbarities had his men faced, what were they still facing? His hand glued on his gun, his body trembling, he turned to Duke Baker.

  “You… you brought that bloody priest here, you caused all this,” he snarled, and mustering every ounce of strength he had to control the abject terror surging through his body, he lifted his pistol and slowly raised it to Duke’s head.

  “No, Patrick, no,” Kenny begged. “It’s over, whatever is happenin’, we’re done for.”

  Shifting his focus from Duke, he looked over at Kenny. The once cocky marshal had his knees tucked into his chest, and tears were running down his face.

  “I’m gonna shoot you both,” McGill grunted, though his hand was shaking so badly he wasn’t even sure he’d be able pull the trigger.

  “I don’t think so.”

  Shocked to hear a woman’s voice, he swung around and stared into the courtyard. Was he hearing things?

  “And neither do I.”

  Another one? There were two of them?

  “Who’s there?” he called, unable to control the tremble in his voice.

  Why couldn’t he see them? Were they real, or were they the reaper’s dark angels coming to collect him? The shrieks of his gang were pulsing through his head. The reaper had been real. Patrick’s loveless heart began to seize in his chest. His time had come. He was going to die.

  “I’m takin’ you with me,” he grunted, looking back down at Duke.

  He’d barely finished speaking when two shots blasted through the air. He stumbled sideways, and Patrick McGill was dead before he hit the ground.

  Emerging from their hiding places in the courtyard, Dolly and Ida raced forward and helped Duke to his feet. They hugged and kissed and softly sobbed with joy and relief, then slowly made their way back into the house. No attention was paid to the pitiful sight of the sniveling Kenny as he crawled away, eventually half-standing, then stumbling off in search of his horse.

  * * *

  A short time later, Tucker was in the bunkhouse with Duke’s boys. On his way from leaving Ranger in his corral he’d seen McGill’s body, and though he’d been desperate to get into the house and find Dolly, he needed to make sure all of the ranch hands had made it back safely. As they excitedly explained how they’d been able to sneak back without being seen, he began shaking their hands and congratulating them.

  “Remember, you can’t tell a soul what you did tonight. The legend of the thicket has to remain intact. The survivors will spin their tale, and it’ll serve as a warnin’ to any others like the McGill brothers who might take it into their heads to come to Spring Junction and cause trouble. You have your town back. It’s gonna be safe again, and I’m gonna tell Duke you should take a day tomorrow for yourselves, spend it however you want. You sure deserve it.”

  “And I reckon we need it,” one of them shouted.

  “Are you stickin’ around, Tucker?” another asked.

  “Yep. I’ll round up the vermin that made it out and chase ‘em outta town, if they haven’t skedaddled already. I want ‘em spreadin’ the word. Then I’ll get law and order back right and proper. I’ll be the actin’ marshal, at least for a while.”

  “How do we say thanks to ya, Tucker?” Jack asked.

  “It’s me doin’ the thankin’, Jack. Sure couldn’t’ve happened without y’all. Now I’d best go in the house and see Duke.”

  “What should we do with McGill?”

  “Leave him where he’s lyin’. I’ll be goin’ into town and findin’ the undertaker in the mornin’. There’ll be other bodies to clear outta the thicket as well as him. Get some rest, and send the Lord thanks for lookin’ over us tonight.”

  * * *

  Inside the house, Duke, Maude, Ida, Dolly, and Betsy were gathered together in the dining room. Betsy had laid out some cake, sandwiches, and a pot of coffee, though Duke and Maude had opted for wine, and Ida a small glass of sherry. When Tucker walked in, the first thing he noticed was the blue shawl around Dolly’s shoulders. A smile curled the ends of his lips, and a wave of warm joy spread through his heart. She leapt to her feet, and as she ran across to meet him, he opened his arms.

  “Thank God,” she exclaimed, leaning against him. “You took so long, I was getting so worried.”

  “Easy,” he said calmly, holding her for a moment before gently stepping back. “I had to ride up and over the hill to get here. I needed to make sure I wasn’t seen.”

  “Tucker,” Duke said, rising to his feet and walking over to shake his hand, “what you’ve done, I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to repay you, there are no words that can express my gratitude. When you first told me your plan I wasn’t sure what to think, but when I saw you as the grim reaper, you scared me even though I knew it was you, and how the blazes can you ride your horse like that?”

  “I just do,” Tucker smiled. “Now I need to sit a spell and have a drink, and you need to tell me what happened with McGill.”

  “A certain young lady refused to listen,” Maude began as Tucker sat down next to Dolly, and Duke returned to his chair at the head of the table, “and she took Duke’s gun from his drawer and left the office to see what was happening.”

  “Of course she did,” Tucker sighed, shooting Dolly a reprimanding glance.

  “Then Ida suddenly decided to follow her, so I stayed with Lucy,” Maude continued.

  “Wait, where is Lucy now?” Tucker asked.

  “Still locked in the office,” Maude said. “She spent the entire time telling us how sorry she was. We didn’t know what to do with her, so we decided to wait for you. Any ideas?”

  “Lock her in a bedroom tonight, and I’ll take her back to town tomorrow. I’ll give her a good talkin’ to, put her a jail cell for a couple of nights, and I’ll see what she has to say for herself then, now please, continue with your story. You and Ida,” he said, looking down at Dolly, “did you go out into the courtyard?”

  “We did, and we saw father on his knees, and that beastly man standing over him with a gun. That’s when we made the pact.”

  “The pact?” Tucker frowned.

  “That we split up,” Ida interjected, “and then on my signal, we’d both take a shot at McGill. That way, if he died, neither of us would know who fired the bullet that got him.”

  “Ida carries a gun in her bag,” Duke declared.

  “I know,” Tucker said, shaking his head. “She told me when we met.”

  “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with a woman protectin’ herself,” Ida said firmly. “Anyways, when it was obvious that McGill was gonna pull the trigger—”

  “Ida yelled ‘now,’ and we both fired,” Dolly said, interrupting Ida and finishing the story, “though I would’ve been fine if I’d been the one who shot him dead.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Ida said wisely, “and thank the Lord, you’ll never have to know.”

  “Thank you, Ida,” Tucker said soberly. “Dolly may not realize it, but I suspect several of us at this table know that takin’ a life is no easy thing.”

  “But it’s all over now,” Maude declared, feeling a seriousness starting to descend across the table,
“and we’re all alive to tell the story, but Tucker, we’re curious, where on earth did you get that mask? And what was that pole you holding?”

  “I picked up the mask in New Orleans. The pole, that’s somethin’ I got from a magician in New York. It looks like a handle, but it has a spring-loaded button. Push it, and the stick shoots out.”

  “I want to see that,” said Dolly, “and any other tricks you have.”

  “I wouldn’t mind seein’ that myself,” Ida declared.

  “Sure, happy to show it to you,” he promised.

  “The whole thing went off without a hitch,” Duke exclaimed.

  “I gotta say, I was a bit worried about involvin’ so many others,” Tucker remarked, “but with a whole gang to tackle, I needed the help. I told your boys, Duke, and I’m repeatin’ it now, we’ve gotta keep what we did here tonight a tightly held secret.”

  “You got that right,” Duke declared. “Not a word.”

  “No, not a word,” Maude agreed, “and I’d like to make a toast, to Tucker and Father O’Brien. I hope one day we can all thank that amazing priest as well.”

  “To Tucker and Father O’Brien,” they chorused, then sipped their drinks.

  “I would have liked to have met him,” Betsy said softly, speaking for the first time, “and thank you for lettin’ me join this celebration. It means a lot. This family, this house, it’s very dear to me.”

  “As you are to us,” Duke said fondly. “We wouldn’t dream of not includin’ you. You know I couldn’t survive without your cookin’.”

  * * *

  A short time later, the small celebration broke up, and as everyone went their separate ways, Tucker led Dolly down the hall and out to the garden where they’d been just a few hours earlier. Taking her in his arms he held her tightly, then gripping her hair, he gently pulled back her head.

  “Tonight was all down to you,” he softly declared. “If you hadn’t said what you did about Patrick talkin’ in the hotel, there’s no tellin’ what could’ve happened.”