Rosaria's mother kept it up, and while she was doing that Braddock lowered his arms and slipped around to the back of the well. He was unsteady and had to brace himself with one hand on the low stone wall around the well while he felt on the ground in the darkness for the gun the woman had said was there.
His fingers brushed the barrel and closed around it. He picked up the gun and transferred his grip to the butt. It was an old single-action Colt, but as long as it worked, that was all that mattered. Quickly, he checked the barrel to make sure sand hadn't fouled it and found it clean.
The revolver held four rounds, she had said. Well, he would just have to make them count.
He stepped out from behind the well. The guard finally noticed him, eyes growing big as he stared over the woman's shoulder. He must have figured out what she'd been doing, because he jerked up the rifle he held and used it to batter her aside, shouting, "You damned bitch!"
Braddock had to use both hands to aim and fire the Colt, but he squeezed off a shot before the guard could do anything else. Because of the uncertain light he aimed for the biggest target, the man's torso. As the gun in Braddock's hand blasted, the guard staggered. Braddock knew he'd hit the man. But the guard wasn't down, and he managed to fire the Winchester. The slug chewed splinters from one of the well posts next to Braddock.
Braddock had already thumbed back the hammer. He fired a second shot, and this one knocked the guard over on his back. Braddock stumbled forward as he eared back the hammer again. The guard lay there gasping and arching his back like a fish that had been hauled out of a pond. He gave a gurgling groan and then sagged limply on the ground.
Braddock stuck the old revolver in the waistband of his trousers and bent to pick up the guard's fallen rifle and jerk the man's pistol from its holster. While he was doing that, the woman climbed back to her feet.
"Kill them all," she said.
"That's the general idea," Braddock said.
But it wouldn't be easy, the shape he was in, outnumbered as he was. The two shots hadn't drawn any attention so far. Shots had been ringing out all over the village all night as the outlaws wreaked their havoc. That respite wouldn't last, though. In a minute or so somebody would realize they had heard both a rifle and a pistol, and they would come to see what the exchange of shots had been about. Not everybody would be so sated by booze and violence that they couldn't think straight.
"You'd better get out of sight," Braddock went on. "Gracias."
If he'd had any doubts about the way she felt toward him, the way she spat at his feet before she scurried off erased them. To her he was just the lesser of two evils, a blunt instrument to be used against the men she despised even more.
That was all right with him. Carrying the weapons he had taken from the guard, he trotted off into the shadows.
Judging by the stars, it was a couple of hours until dawn, and he had a lot of work to do in that time.
* * *
The cantina had a back door, Braddock recalled, so he circled toward it. Some of the outlaws were bound to be there, and Coleman might be one of them.
While he wanted to kill as many of the gang as possible before they got him, his main goal was to put a bullet through Tull Coleman's brain. He didn't need some sort of dramatic showdown. If he had the chance to shoot Coleman in the head from behind, he would take it. All that mattered was putting him down like a hydrophobia skunk, so he couldn't spread any more of his evil through the world.
He eased the building's rear door open and slipped into the darkened hallway. Enough light came through the beaded curtain at the other end for him to see the door of the room where he had spent the night with Rosaria, and that caused his guts to twist for a second. It was hard to believe that less than twenty-four hours ago she had still been alive, snuggled warm and vital against him in the narrow bunk.
The room was occupied now. Braddock heard sobbing from inside, along with a man's harsh, panting breath. Moving soundlessly, he stepped through the door and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. He could make out the entwined shapes on the bed. He knew from the crying that it wasn't the girl's idea to be here.
Braddock moved closer to the bed and raised the rifle in both hands. He would have to strike swiftly and surely to avoid raising a commotion. When he was as sure of his target as he could be under these circumstances, he brought the Winchester's butt crashing down on the outlaw's head.
Bone shattered under the blow, and the woman screamed as the man collapsed on top of her. The scream wouldn't draw any attention from the other outlaws in the place, Braddock thought. At least he hoped it wouldn't.
He had put so much effort into the blow that he almost fell. He caught himself with one hand on the bed and then reached past the dead man to clamp that hand over the woman's mouth so she couldn't raise any more ruckus. He leaned close and whispered, "I'm a friend. Amigo. I won't hurt you. You understand?"
She nodded hesitantly, so Braddock risked lifting his hand. Other than breathing heavily, she didn't make a sound.
He grasped the dead man's shoulder and rolled him off the bed. The corpse thudded to the floor. The sound made Braddock wince, but it couldn't be helped.
"You speak English? How many more of them are here?"
She understood enough to grasp the meaning of his question, although she answered in Spanish. "Tres."
Her voice was young. How young, Braddock didn't want to think about. Instead he whispered, "Gracias."
The man's trousers were down around his ankles. It was a repulsive task, but Braddock felt around until he located the man's holstered gun and also a sheathed knife. He unbuckled the belt and strapped it around his lean hips. He was turning into a walking armory, he thought as a faint smile tugged at his lips in the darkness. Now he had a rifle, three handguns, and a knife.
He would probably need all of them before the night was over.
"You run on home," he told the girl. She hurried out, pulling a ripped dress around her as she headed toward the back door.
Braddock turned toward the front of the cantina.
The other rooms here in the back seemed to be empty, and he saw why when he reached the curtain and peered through the screen of beads. The other three outlaws sat at a table, passing around a bottle of tequila. They had either already taken their turn with the girl, or were waiting for it.
Braddock spotted Santo slumped forward over the bar. At first he thought the proprietor was sleeping, but then he saw the drops falling slowly from the puddle of blood that had reached the front edge of the bar. More than likely the outlaws had cut Santo's throat and he'd collapsed over the bar as he died. He was still balanced there.
None of the men at the table was Tull Coleman. But they were all killers, rapists, arsonists, and thieves, Braddock told himself. As a Texas Ranger, it was his job to bring them to justice. Here and now there was only one way to do that. The thought propped up his fading strength.
He hoped they were drunk enough that their reactions wouldn't be very fast. Right now, his sure weren't. His eyesight wasn't too clear, either. Luckily, the range was only a matter of a few yards.
He stepped through the curtains. The outlaws had to have heard the beads clicking together, but they would think it was just their friend coming back from having his fun with that poor girl.
Braddock lined his sights on the back of the man closest to him and pulled the trigger. The Winchester cracked and blew the bastard's brains out. The outlaw fell forward across the table as blood, bone fragments, and gray matter sprayed in the faces of his companions.
They were shocked enough that Braddock was able to lever the rifle and shoot one of them in the chest before the third man finally reacted and surged up from his chair as he clawed out the gun on his hip. Braddock fired and turned the outlaw halfway around with the shot. He levered and squeezed off a fourth round. This one struck the last man in the jaw and tore it away, leaving him to make a strangled sound that tried to be a scream but couldn't quite make it.
As he made a last-ditch attempt to lift his gun, Braddock shot him in the head and dropped him for good.
That flurry of shots, on top of the ones earlier, was bound to bring attention. Braddock lowered the rifle, wheeled around, and hurried out the back of the cantina. He heard men shouting in alarm somewhere along the street.
Any time now, somebody would notice that he was no longer tied to the well. They would figure out that he was the one stalking through the shadows and killing them.
He smiled bleakly as he imagined how well Tull Coleman would take that news.
Chapter 17
"Find him!" Coleman screeched as black fury threatened to consume him. "Find him and bring him to me!"
How the hell did Braddock do it? he asked himself as he stalked back and forth in front of the well where the former Texas Ranger was supposed to be tied. Braddock had been stripped of his badge and disgraced, yet he had come back from that to cause more trouble for Coleman. He had survived a run-in with the Rurales, including an ugly head wound from a saber, he'd had the hell beaten out of him several times, and he'd been strung up like a sack of meat.
And yet Braddock was still alive, and a handful of Coleman's men were dead, including the one who'd been guarding the former Texas Ranger.
The bastard had had help to escape. Coleman knew that because one of his men had brought a torch and they had found the pieces of rope that had been used to tie Braddock to the well. Those ropes had been cut. One of the villagers had dared to set him free. That surprised Coleman. He had believed that the survivors were thoroughly cowed.
He felt better than ever about his decision to kill everybody here and finish burning the place to the ground. They had it coming, the dirty greasers, he thought.
Some of his men had already started looking for Braddock, but the others were just standing around looking confused. They'd had too much to drink, sated their appetites too much. They were groggy with their own decadence. Coleman waved an arm at them and yelled, "What the hell are you waiting for? Spread out and find that son of a bitch!"
The men began to disperse cautiously. Most had worried looks on their faces. Five of their pards had been struck down by an avenging force out of the shadows, and it might come for them next. There was just no telling.
Shots blasted at the other end of town. "He's here!" one of the outlaws screamed. "He's—"
* * *
Braddock looped his arm around the man's neck, jerked his head back, and ripped the knife across the tight-drawn throat. Blood gushed blackly, fountaining out a good ten feet. Braddock let go of the outlaw and stepped back as the man dropped to the ground to gurgle out his last few breaths.
Two more members of the gang were lying in a tangled sprawl behind him where he had gunned them down. Neither had moved since they fell, so Braddock was confident they were either dead or dying. He left them there and trotted off into the deeper shadows.
He heard more of the outlaws coming, but they weren't charging ahead blindly anymore. They were being careful now because he had managed to spook them, which was exactly what he wanted.
A few minutes earlier, he had spotted Coleman at the other end of the street and seriously considered taking a shot at the boss outlaw. He'd decided against it because he was just too damned shaky. He wasn't sure he could hit the target at that range. When the time came for him to finish off Tull Coleman, he wanted to make sure of the kill.
On the other hand, he had to wonder how much longer he could continue like this. He was operating now on pure hate, and that wouldn't keep him going forever. Sooner or later—probably sooner—his battered body would collapse and there would be nothing he could do to stop it.
Coleman had to be dead before that happened.
Braddock leaned against the rear wall of a burned-out hut and closed his eyes for a moment to gather what strength he had left. As he stood there he heard rough voices approaching. He set the rifle against the wall and drew two of the revolvers.
One of the men coming around the hut said, "I'm thinkin' about saddlin' my horse and gettin' out of here. Seems to me this place must be cursed. How could it not be, with all the dyin' that's gone on since yesterday mornin'?"
"You try to leave now before we catch that damn Ranger and Tull's liable to shoot you himself. I never saw anybody with such a powerful hate for a fella."
"Tull says he ain't really a Ranger."
The other outlaw snorted and said, "He's wearin' that star in a circle and it appears he's pure hell on wheels when it comes to fightin'. That says Ranger to me, no matter what anybody else claims."
Even the shape he was in, that put a smile on Braddock's face for a second.
Then as the men came around the corner of the building, he raised both guns, pointed them at the shadowy figures, and began thumbing off shots as fast as he could.
The slugs tore into the outlaws and made them jitter backward in a bizarre dance for a couple of steps before they collapsed. As they fell, Braddock pouched the iron in his right hand and grabbed the Winchester. He dashed across to another half-destroyed hut and clambered over a wall that had fallen in for the most part. He dropped to a knee, rested the rifle on what was left of the wall, and waited.
Three men ran up to the ones he had just shot. As they cursed in surprise at the discovery, Braddock opened fire again. He emptied the Winchester and dropped two of them, but the third man reached the corner of the hut and took cover there as he returned Braddock's fire. Braddock ducked as bullets smacked into the adobe wall near him.
More men shouted nearby, and he heard running footsteps. They were closing in around him now. If he didn't get out, they would trap him here and he wouldn't get to kill Tull Coleman.
With that thought to spur him on, he waited for a lull in the firing from the other hut and then lurched to his feet, vaulted over the wall, and made a dash away from there. He left the rifle since it was empty and he didn't have any more ammunition for it.
A dark shape appeared in front of him. Colt flame bloomed in the predawn shadows. Braddock felt the wind-rip of a bullet past his ear as he triggered the Colt in his hand. The outlaw grunted and spun away.
He hadn't missed many shots tonight, Braddock thought as he kept running toward the old church. It was almost like some other agency was guiding his aim, another set of eyes and hands hovering behind him, directing his bullets.
But that was crazy.
Damned if he was going to give the old man credit for something like that.
A rifle spit fire at him from the right. He heard the whipcrack of the slug as it passed close by. Someone else opened up on him from the left. He was in a crossfire and knew he stood little chance of making it to the church.
Then more shots sounded and a man cried out in pain. Both rifles bracketing him fell silent. Had the outlaws inadvertently shot each other? Braddock had no idea, but he kept moving. He wasn't running now so much as stumbling, but the church was right in front of him. He grabbed one of the double doors at the entrance, jerked it open, and half-ran, half-fell into the stygian darkness inside.
He bumped into something, felt of it and realized it was a pew. As he slid down onto it, he wondered if the priest was hiding out or had been killed by the outlaws. El Catedral de la Esperanza, Rosaria had called this place. The Cathedral of Hope. He'd been making a grim joke when he suggested maybe it should be called No Hope, but that had turned out to be right.
As Braddock sat there trying to catch his breath, he heard more shots somewhere outside, followed by the swift rataplan of hoofbeats. Some of Coleman's men must have had enough and were taking off for the tall and uncut despite their fear of their leader. That would make the odds against Braddock a little better. The shots, he decided, were just wild ones as the spooked outlaws blazed away at shadows.
The guns fell silent, and the hoofbeats faded away. A hush settled over the village. Braddock didn't expect it to last for long, and sure enough it didn't.
"Braddock!" That hoarse screech cam
e from Tull Coleman. "Braddock, where are you? Come on out and face me, you son of a bitch! You goddamn phony Ranger!"
Those words made anger well up inside Braddock. Deep down, in his own heart, he still considered himself a Ranger and always would. To have scum of the earth like Tull Coleman accuse him of being a phony was more than Braddock could stand.
He pushed himself to his feet and started checking his guns. Two of the revolvers were empty, and the other held only two rounds.
He had six more cartridges in the loops on the gunbelt, he discovered when he checked them. And they wouldn't fit the gun Rosaria's mother had given him. Braddock set it on the pew. He thumbed four cartridges into one of the remaining guns and the other two into the cylinder that was already partially loaded.
Eight rounds. They would have to be enough.
"Braddock!" Coleman screamed. He sounded a little closer now, like he was coming toward the church. "Braddock, where are you?"
For a long moment Braddock stood there with his arms down at his sides, a gun in each hand. A bone-deep weariness stronger than anything he had ever experienced filled him. He had absorbed too much punishment over the past few days. Even more than that, he had seen too much death. His soul was awash in fire and blood. His hands would never be clean.
The only atonement he could make, and it was a slight one, was to see to it that Tull Coleman never hurt anybody else.
"Braddock!"
He strode to the church doors, kicked them open, and stepped out as his hands came up filled with the two guns.
"Right here, Coleman!" he cried.
The outlaw was twenty feet away. Braddock didn't see anything else moving on Esperanza's lone street. Coleman's gun was already drawn, too, and even though Braddock had a slight head start on him, Coleman was in better shape. His gun came level first and flame spouted from the muzzle.
Braddock felt the hammerblow of a slug against his chest and rocked back a step, but he didn't fall. He brought both revolvers to bear on Coleman's chest and squeezed the triggers. The guns roared and bucked against his palms as he fired two shots from each of them.
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