Dancing With Dead Men

by James Reasoner

  Rusty was still over crouched behind the buggy, he reminded himself. Still in danger. Logan dragged in a couple more deep breaths, then leaned the cane against the tree and pulled his Colt from its cross-draw rig. He turned, propped himself up with his left shoulder against the trunk, and called to Rusty, "I made it! I'll cover you!"

  Rusty turned to look and raised a hand to wave acknowledgment. At that moment, he jerked and stumbled. He started to fall, and Logan knew his friend had been hit.

  Rusty didn't go all the way to the ground. He caught himself on the Henry's butt and used the rifle to lever himself upright again. "I'm all right!" he shouted, then broke into an unsteady run toward the trees.

  Logan knew good and well that Rusty wasn't all right. He'd been wounded. But he was moving pretty well again, so Logan leveled the Colt at the bunkhouse, pulled back the hammer, and fired. He saw splinters fly from the sill of the window at which he'd been aiming, so he knew he had come pretty close, especially using a handgun at relatively long range. He'd always been a good shot, and there was nothing wrong with his aim.

  He had only six rounds in the Colt – knowing that there might be trouble, he had loaded the sixth chamber, which normally he would have kept empty so the hammer could rest on it – instead of the fifteen that Rusty's Henry held, so he had to be careful and space out his shots more. But by the time Rusty reached the trees without further mishap, Logan had emptied the Colt. He swung around behind the tree trunk again and set the scattergun on the ground so he could reload.

  Rusty leaned against another tree and tried to catch his breath. Logan saw blood on his left sleeve and asked, "How bad are you hit?"

  "Bullet barely nicked me," Rusty replied. "Hurt like blazes at the time and I reckon the arm will be pretty stiff and sore by tomorrow, but I'll be all right. As soon as I get a chance I'll tie a rag around it to stop the bleedin'."

  "Better take the time to do that now," Logan said. "You don't want to pass out from losing too much blood. I've seen it happen."

  Rusty took the advice and tore a strip of cloth off the bottom of his shirt to fashion a crude bandage. With the help of his teeth to hold one end, he tied it tightly around the wounded arm. Then he thumbed fresh cartridges into the Henry to replace the ones he had fired.

  A few shots from the bunkhouse had torn through the branches around them, but the men holed up in the long, low structure seemed to have forgotten about them for the most part. Logan thought they could risk moving again, especially if they faded back farther into the woods where they wouldn't be seen as easily.

  He explained the plan to Rusty, who agreed and said, "Just be careful when we get to the shed. We still don't know exactly what's goin' on here."

  "I don't intend to rush into anything," Logan said. He laughed humorlessly and added, "I can't exactly rush, anyway."

  They circled through the trees. It would be easy to get lost in such thick growth. Here under the spreading branches was perpetual gloom, since not much sunlight ever penetrated this far. Fallen needles carpeted the ground. There wasn't a great deal of undergrowth to impede their progress.

  The sound of gunfire guided them, and after a few minutes they reached a spot behind the shed, across the clearing from the bunkhouse. From where they crouched at the edge of the trees, they could see the men who used the piles of logs for cover and fired toward the bunkhouse.

  Rusty said, "I recognize two or three of those fellas! They're part of the loggin' crew, all right. We picked the right side, Logan."

  "Now we can give them a hand," Logan said. "We'll just have to be careful and not spook them too much when we come up behind them, or they're liable to turn around and – "

  He stopped short when some instinct made him look to his left. At first he didn't see anything except tree trunks and branches laden with needles.

  But then he realized something was sticking out from behind one of those tree trunks, something long and menacing.

  It was a rifle barrel, and whoever was wielding the weapon appeared to be drawing a bead on the loggers in the shed.

  23.

  Logan had holstered the Colt and had the scattergun in his right hand again. He brought the double-barreled weapon up and triggered the right-hand barrel, sending a load of deadly buckshot slashing through the trees.

  "To the left, Rusty!" he warned. Movement among the trunks told him more than one bushwhacker lurked over there.

  Rusty's wounded arm didn't hinder him much as he got the Henry cracking again. The rifle fire forced one man into the open, and Logan was waiting for him. The second charge of buckshot caught the would-be bushwhacker and lifted him off his feet, slamming him to the ground in a bloody heap.

  Logan dropped the scattergun and pulled the Colt. Return fire thudded into the tree trunk beside him as he crouched. He wasn't even really aware of his bad leg anymore; the blood pounded so hard through his veins that all he cared about was the battle.

  God, he had missed it!

  The roar of guns, the acrid bite of powdersmoke in his nose, the kick of a revolver against his hand, the knowledge that his life and the lives of other men hung in the balance . . . All those things had been like food and drink to him for so many years. It had been a grim, lonely, desperate life . . . but it had been his life.

  And now for a moment it was his again.

  Until a bullet kicked up dirt right beside him and he tried to move quickly from one bit of cover to another. When he did, his bad leg went out from under him with no warning and dumped him on the ground between two trees, an easy target.

  More dirt spurted from a narrow miss and sprayed in his face, blinding him. He had held on to the Colt and fired by instinct. He hoped that would rattle his enemies if nothing else.

  Then a hand grasped his ankle and hauled back. Logan slid over the ground. Rusty pulled him behind a tree and dropped beside him.

  "That was too blasted close," Rusty said. "You gotta be more careful, Logan."

  "I . . . I forgot for a second . . . forgot I'm not the man I once was – "

  "Don't worry about that. I think we got those varmints on the run."

  Logan listened. The shooting had diminished. He heard men crashing through what brush there was in the forest. It sounded like they were lighting a shuck out of here.

  But not all of the gunmen were ready to give up just yet. Another flurry of shots ripped through the trees. Still flat on his belly, Logan slid to the side and aimed at a muzzle flash in the gloom. Just before he squeezed the trigger, the man fired again, and this time in the glare of orange flame, Logan caught a glimpse of his face.

  A split-second later Logan's Colt roared and bucked in his hand, and the man he had aimed at disappeared. Logan didn't know if he'd hit the target or if the gunman had just abandoned the fight after all.

  But he was certain he had recognized that scarred face.

  Jim Meadows.

  Ever since he had spotted Meadows at Red Mike Carnahan's place in Little Rock, Logan had known that he would see the man again. He had always been too hard-headed, too pragmatic, to believe much in fate or destiny or whatever anybody wanted to call it. But despite that, he knew. With him working for one side in this timber war, it was inevitable that Meadows would turn up on the other side.

  It was just too damned fitting not to happen.

  A few more scattered shots rang out, then silence settled down over the forest again. Rusty opened his mouth to say something, but Logan lifted a hand and motioned for him to stay quiet. They waited.

  Several minutes went by, and then a man called, "Hey! In the trees behind the shed! Anybody out there?"

  "I know that voice," Rusty whispered. "That's Judd Farley, the foreman of this crew."

  Logan nodded. He had met Farley on his previous trip up here to Devil's Gorge Camp. "Go ahead and answer him."

  Rusty stood up and shouted, "Hold your fire, Farley! It's Rusty Turner and Logan Handley!"

  "Turner!" Farley exclaimed. "What the hell are you doin
' out here?"

  "Savin' you from gettin' ambushed, from the looks of it," Rusty replied.

  After Logan picked up his cane and the scattergun and climbed to his feet, they stepped out of the trees and walked toward the shed. Judd Farley came out to meet them. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a shock of prematurely white hair and a bristling mustache. He wore logger's work boots, canvas trousers, and a flannel shirt and carried a single-shot rifle in his big, rough hands.

  "What's this about an ambush?" he demanded. "We heard hell break loose back here and figured we were done for, but none of the shots seemed to be comin' in our direction."

  "That's because Logan and me kept the devils occupied. We planned to join you in the shed and give you a hand, but Logan spotted ambushers lurkin' in the trees and cut loose on them instead."

  Farley nodded to Logan and said, "We're obliged to you, then, Mr. Handley."

  "What happened here?" Logan asked.

  "We were on our way back in for the day when we heard some shots," Farley said. "Seems that some scoundrels had snuck up and were fixin' to set fire to the bunkhouse. Our cook spotted 'em and went after them with nothin' but a butcher knife and an old cap-and-ball pistol. Old Jonesy never did have a lick of sense. But he managed to chase 'em into the bunkhouse without gettin' himself killed, and he kept 'em pinned down there until we got here. They couldn't set the place on fire while they were in there, so that ruined their plan."

  "How'd this bunch get out and get behind you?"

  "Varmints chopped a hole in the back wall!" Farley sounded mortally offended by that. "From the looks of it, some of them stayed inside and kept shootin' to make us think they were all in there, while the others snuck around here to catch us in a crossfire. Reckon they hadn't given up on burnin' down the whole camp."

  "And we were sneakin' around from the other direction at the same time," Rusty said.

  "What happened to the men in the bunkhouse?" Logan asked. He was sure the man he had cut down with the scattergun was dead, but he hoped Farley and the other loggers had gotten their hands on a prisoner or two.

  "They all got away," the foreman said disgustedly, dashing that hope.

  "That's a shame. I wanted to question one of them. Marcus Baldwin sent us out here to find out who's behind all the trouble you've been having."

  "I can tell you that," Farley said with a scowl. "That blasted Aaron Nash, that's who. Nobody else has got it in so bad for Baldwin."

  Logan was convinced that Farley was right, but there was still a matter of proof.

  With any luck, he could find Jim Meadows and force the man to talk. That would kill the proverbial two birds with one stone.

  He could get to the bottom of Baldwin's troubles . . . and he could have his showdown with Meadows at last.

  With the hot blood coursing through his veins, Logan didn't even think about the fact that a showdown with Meadows was exactly what he had gone to great pains to avoid a few weeks earlier.

  * * *

  Aaron Nash was still in his office, working late with his son-in-law Carleton Eastland. Carleton was being particularly obtuse tonight, asking questions about the orders he was being given until Nash finally exploded, "Look, you don't have to understand these orders, just pass them along to the men who know what they're doing!"

  Eastland frowned and looked offended. "You don't have to take that tone, Aaron – "

  "When we're in this office, it's Mr. Nash. You can grasp that, surely."

  Eastland nodded stiffly and said, "Of course, Mr. Nash."

  A knock sounded on the door that provided a second exit from Nash's private office. It opened into a short hallway that led to an outer door opening in turn into the alley behind the building. Only a few people had keys to that outer door.

  Nash drew in a sharp breath. Eastland started toward the door, saying, "Who in the world – "

  "That's all!" Nash's harsh words stopped him. Nash went on, "It's late. You can go home, Carleton. Tell Elizabeth I'm sorry I kept you after hours."

  Eastland gestured toward the door and said, "But someone – "

  "I'll handle it. It's just a routine delivery. I, ah, told them to come around back, since I knew I'd be working late. I left the outer door unlocked."

  That was a lie. Nash wasn't expecting anyone. He had a pretty good idea who was on the other side of that door, however, and the so-called routine delivery wouldn't be of good news, that was for sure.

  Eastland protested some more, but only half-heartedly. He wanted to go home just as much as his father-in-law wanted him out of there. He said good night and left to get his hat and coat.

  Nash went to the rear door and unlocked it.

  "Damned well about time," Jim Meadows said when he came in. "I don't like being kept waiting."

  "I don't like being interrupted," Nash replied coldly. "What are you doing here?"

  "It didn't go like it was supposed to at Devil's Gorge Camp."

  "I was afraid that's what you were going to say. What happened?"

  "Logan Handley. That's what happened."

  Nash frowned and shook his head. "I don't understand."

  "Handley and that fella Turner came along and ruined everything. Handley almost put a scar on the other side of my face. I felt the heat of his slug."

  "The man's a cripple."

  "He sure as hell didn't fight like a cripple. Not today, anyway."

  Nash sank down in the chair behind his desk. This competition with Marcus Baldwin was draining him, not just financially but emotionally as well. He was angry and frustrated and wanted to put an end to this.

  "When I hired you, you promised to put Baldwin out of business. I told you I didn't care how you went about it, I don't want to know any more of that than I have to, I just want Baldwin dealt with."

  "I didn't know I'd be going up against Handley again."

  "You can't be afraid of the man!" Nash burst out. "He uses a cane to get around."

  "He was moving pretty good today, probably because he wasn't thinking about it."

  "His gun arm is no good."

  "He can handle a Colt with his off hand. And he's taken to carrying a sawed-off shotgun, too. You don't have to be very slick with a street-sweeper like that."

  "If Handley's a problem, deal with him."

  "I intend to," Meadows said. He smiled with the unscarred side of his face. "I'm going to give him something else to worry about besides you and Baldwin."

  24.

  Logan and Rusty searched all around the camp, hoping to find clues that might lead them to some of the other hired gunmen, but they didn't have any luck.

  It didn't really matter, Logan told himself. He had the proof of his own eyes that Jim Meadows was involved. Now he had to track down Meadows.

  By the time they were approaching Hot Springs in the buggy the next day, Logan's anger had faded some, and his more practical side was trying to assert itself. Meadows was an extremely dangerous man, and while Logan had handled himself better than he expected during the fight the previous day, he wasn't sure if he was ready to take on a killer like Meadows.

  But was he ever going to be ready? He couldn't answer that question. Maybe if he kept working at it, he would regain more of the strength in his bad arm and leg, but he would never be back to the way he'd been before the illness felled him. He would have to live with that for the rest of his life and make the best of it.

  That life might be considerably shorter if he faced off against Jim Meadows.

  He was gazing at the buggy's floorboards and thinking about that when Rusty said, "Hey, look up yonder."

  Logan raised his eyes and frowned as he spotted the column of black smoke billowing up into the sky above the valley where Hot Springs was located. They were on the western outskirts of town, and it was obvious that a building was burning somewhere several blocks in front of them.

  "Must be quite a blaze," Logan said.

  With worry in his voice, Rusty replied, "Looks to me like it'
s comin' from about where the boardin' house is."

  Logan tensed. Rusty was right, he decided as he studied the location of the smoke. Suddenly he was worried, too. Even though he didn't live at the boarding house anymore, he considered all the people who did to be his friends. At this time of day, most of them would be at work . . .

  But Vickie wouldn't be. Unless she had gone to the market, Vickie would be at the house.

  "Come on," Logan said. "Let's go see."

  "Just what I was thinkin'." Rusty snapped the reins and sent the horses trotting ahead briskly. As the buggy drew closer to the smoke he urged them into an outright run.

  Logan was sure now that the smoke came from the same block where the Eastland boarding house stood. As they came within sight of the house itself, fear shot through him when he saw black smoke pouring from the windows on the upper stories and flames shooting up from the roof.

  Rusty cursed and slashed at the horses' rumps with the reins. Hot Springs had a volunteer fire department, and its wagon was already parked on the street in front of the house with men working the pump handles to send water spraying from a hose handled by a couple of other volunteers. Logan could tell that they weren't going to be able to save the house, though. It was already too far gone.

  The street was packed with people watching the fire. As Rusty brought the buggy to a skidding halt before it reached the crowd, Logan looked anxiously among them, hoping to catch a glimpse of Vickie. He didn't see her anywhere.

  He spotted several of the boarders he knew and climbed down from the buggy to hurry over to them. "Where's Mrs. Eastland?" he asked. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the crowd commotion and the roaring and crackling of the flames.

  The boarders turned to look at him, and one of them, a mostly bald store clerk named Keaton, shook his head and said, "None of us have seen her, Mr. Handley. We were at work and came down here when we heard about the fire."

  "We've lost everything in the world," one of the other men said. "Everything."