The Wicked Die Twice

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  The cowing wouldn’t last, though. When the situation turned dire, their true colors would resurface. Especially if their gang closed in. Especially if somehow they managed to bust out of the cage on wheels. If that happened . . . Well, it just couldn’t happen, that’s all. Maybe Larsen had a point. Maybe the young marshal should have shot them while they’d slept at Carlisle’s. Maybe Slash should just shoot all three right now. Why further endanger the lives of the young woman and Glenn Larsen? They’d been through enough.

  On the other hand, killing Chaney, Beecher, and Black Pot would not clear the wolves from their trail. Right now, the wolves were taking it slow and easy, because they wanted to free their pards. Free them without getting them killed. If Slash shot them, they’d move in like lead-triggering lightning to avenge them.

  Sure, they would. Slash knew how men like that thought. He and Pecos were in a whole heap of trouble, and there was no easy way out. And he had a feeling that things were going to get a whole lot nastier soon before they got better.

  He sat in the shadow of the tree, scanning the tree-studded hillside dropping away before him. He kept his ears pricked so that he could, as the old saying went, hear a sleeping rabbit fart. All that he heard, however, were the occasional rustlings of the branches when a slight breeze rose. A couple of times through the night, coyote choirs kicked up a ruckus to the north and then to the east. The din sent cold witches’ fingers walking up Slash’s spine, reminding him as they did of a wild-assed Apache war ceremony he’d unfortunately been privy to down in Arizona some years ago, when it was still a bloody free-for-all down there. He and Pecos had been on the run, headed for Mexico, when they’d found themselves free of the posse that had been after them but caught in a whipsaw between two bands of bloodthirsty Chiricahua determined to scour the white eyes from their sun-scorched homeland—or to at least bake the pale-skinned interlopers in clay pots over low fires and smile as they screamed.

  An owl hooted.

  A nighthawk gave its signature cry.

  Sometime near dawn there was the piercing cry of a rabbit that had met its bloody end in the talons of some night bird that had likely winged off with it to dine in the peace and quiet of some rocky promontory. There came the soft thumps of many running feet, but Slash didn’t even turn to gaze in the sounds’ direction, knowing from experience it was just a coyote pack scampering, quick and silent as furry gray ghosts, along the arroyo behind him.

  He slept with his eyes open for a time and then the false dawn revealed itself in the east—a faint pearl glow silhouetting the bluffs before it. Birds began their morning songs, growing in volume until, compared to the silence of only a few minutes ago, it was almost deafening. A squirrel scampered up through the dirt and pine needles below Slash, gave Slash the wooly eyeball and then holy hell before dashing up a tree with its bushy tail curled in a snit.

  There was enough light now that he could see he was alone out here. If the killers had been waiting for first light to make their move, they would have made it by now. Still, Slash rose and walked around, tracing a broad half circle around his position, just to be sure. He found the second man he’d shot lying on his side, limbs twisted. He was a black man with short hair and long sideburns. Slash recognized him—Creole Green from Louisiana. A former slave who’d taken up robbing Texas trains in the years following the Little Misunderstanding. A bad man. Slash had heard he’d killed passengers for fun, spraying passenger cars with lead while howling like a moon-crazed jackal. Slash had also heard he’d been sentenced to hang in New Mexico.

  Obviously, that hadn’t happened.

  Slash gave a little shudder of apprehension, realizing again just what breed of man was after him and his party.

  A magpie told him where the other dead man lay. The long-tailed carrion-eater gave its shrill cries near some shrubs and a small boulder. Slash walked over, and the bird eyed him devilishly, standing atop the dead man’s shoulder, not wanting to give ground.

  “Get away, you winged rat,” Slash growled as he continued forward.

  Shrieking its indignance, the magpie with its ridiculously long black tail lighted from the body and swooped up through the pine branches, flashing black and iridescent blue and white in the intensifying dawn light. Slash kicked the dead man onto his back. Pale-blue eyes stared up at him without seeing him. Tight, curly red hair clung like a knit cap to the man’s broad head.

  Slash didn’t recognize him.

  “Red Charlie.”

  Slash had heard Pecos moving toward him. He’d known it was Pecos. He’d recognize that lumbering tread anywhere. No killer would be moving toward him making the kind of noise Pecos was, which wasn’t overly loud but loud enough for Slash to know it wasn’t a bushwhacker.

  “Who?” Slash asked.

  “Red Charlie. His half brother was Alpine Billie. Red and Alpine used to ride with their cousins. Can’t remember their names. Dead now. Killed by a vigilance committee in Kansas. Red and Alpine got away but got sent to Yuma Pen in Arizona. Alpine died in the pen. Red escaped twice. Can you believe that?”

  “Nobody escapes twice from Yuma.”

  “Red did. The second time was right successful”—Pecos pointed his rifle at the lumpy body clad in broadcloth suit pants tucked into high-topped boots, and a linsey shirt—“as you can see for yourself.”

  “Not all that successful,” Slash pointed out.

  “Yeah, well . . .” Pecos looked at Slash. “Long night, huh?”

  “Uh-huh.” Slash turned and headed toward their camp. “I got a feelin’ they’re gonna get longer.”

  “Me too.”

  Slash entered the camp and stopped. He stared down at Larsen and Jenny Claymore. Arching an incredulous brow, he glanced at Pecos. Pecos followed Slash’s gaze to where Glenn Larsen lay on his back and the pretty young schoolteacher lay snugged against him, one arm around him, her head on his chest. They slept entangled together like a couple of baby lambs.

  Sound asleep.

  Slash turned to Pecos again and pressed a finger to his lips. He thought he’d let the two younger folks sleep another few minutes while he built up the fire for coffee. But just as he stepped forward, Larsen woke with a start. Jenny did, too, both the young man and the young woman sitting up with a gasp and staring in wide-eyed fear at Slash and Pecos.

  Larsen reached for his rifle but stayed the movement when Pecos said, “Just me an’ Slash is all.”

  Larsen and Jenny looked from Slash to Pecos. Then they looked at each other sitting so close together, sharing the same two blankets.

  “Uhhh,” the young man said, flushing deeply, fidgeting around in his blankets.

  “Uhhh,” the young woman said, also flushing deeply and looking around as though for a burrow she could crawl into.

  Slash and Pecos shared another awkward glance before Slash cleared his throat and said, “Uhhh, well . . . uhh . . . s-sorry to wake you . . .”

  The moment was so inelegant that Slash was glad when one of the prisoners distracted them from the jail wagon with, “When the hell’s breakfast? We’re hungry over here, dammit, an’ we know you gotta feed us, so git to it!”

  CHAPTER 28

  Jay listened in horror to the loud scrapes of the table being moved back into place over the cellar door and then to thudding of the boots above her head.

  She heard the cabin door close with a raspy thump and a click of the latching bolt. She heard the men’s muffled voices outside. She heard the stomps of their boots as they descended the stoop.

  Surely, they weren’t going to leave her here all trussed up in the cellar! Leave her here to die or to be driven mad as she slowly died all alone here in the darkness!

  She pricked her ears, hoping and praying. She could barely hear above the whistling of the blood and the thudding of her heart. But then she heard the drumming of the wagon. Sure enough, they were leaving. She listened in wide-eyed shock, staring into the darkness of the gunnysack, as her captors abandoned her.

  Th
e hoof thuds dwindled quickly to silence and she was alone here in the black silence.

  Essentially, she was buried alive.

  She drew a breath through the gag in her mouth, through her nose, and told herself to stay calm. But instantly, panic overcame her. There was no denying it. Her heart raced and her hands sweat as she struggled against the ropes tying her arms against her body, over the sack, and also binding her ankles together. She wriggled around, grunting and snorting, fiercely trying to loosen the ropes. She quickly grew dizzy as she sucked up all the oxygen in the gunnysack.

  She relaxed her body, but not her mind.

  Terror flowed in behind the panic, and she squeezed her eyes shut and sobbed.

  She wasn’t sure how long she’d lain there, bawling against the neckerchief tied over her mouth, so terrified that she thought her heart would explode, when she heard something outside the cabin. Instantly, she stopped sobbing, lifted her head inside the bag, and pricked her ears, listening.

  Nothing. Only silence.

  She continued listening, though it was hard to hear anything but the thudding of her relentlessly racing heart.

  Still nothing. Whatever she’d heard had been her imagination.

  Oh, God. Dear God, she thought. How am I ever going to get out of here? Am I really going to die here in the darkness, gagged and bound in the cellar of what is most likely some abandoned miner’s shack?

  No one would ever even find her bones.

  A fresh wave of panic was about to overcome her when a tapping sound rose from somewhere above. Again, she lifted her head from the cellar’s earthen floor and, pressing her face against the stinky burlap, listened intently.

  She heard another soft tap. At least, she thought she did, unless it was only her imagination.

  A click. The latch bolt had been tripped.

  Hinges squawked briefly. A female voice: “Jay?”

  She recognized it immediately. She flopped around and grunted with a start and tried to scream, to yell, to shout: “DOWN HERE! MYRA, I’M DOWN HERE! OH, FOR CHRISSAKES, PULL UP THE CELLAR DOOR!”

  But again, the only sounds she was able to make through the gag were those of a strangling cat.

  They must have been enough.

  “Jay!” Myra shouted.

  Above Jay came the loud scraping sounds of the table being moved.

  Hope rose in Jay’s chest, tempering her panic. Above her, she could hear Myra grunting as she tried to lift the door. More grunting—fierce, desperate grunting. Jay did not hear the door budge in its frame.

  Oh, no. The door was too heavy for her!

  Myra stomped around the cabin. There was a clanking sound and then more stomping. The floor creaked over Jay’s head. There was a soft thumping sound as Myra toiled against the door. She heard a clank. Myra must have grabbed a tool—maybe a fireplace poker or a lid hook. Hinges squawked. Music to Jay’s ears! They were followed by the booming slam of the cellar door falling back against the floor . . . and by Myra’s voice, no longer muffled.

  “Jay! Are you down there?”

  Jay writhed violently, grunting.

  “Hold on!” Myra said. “I’m going to light a lamp!”

  Boots thudded again as Myra moved around the cabin. Jay remained in a near state of panic, imagining her captors riding back to the cabin and finding Myra here. Unable to stop herself, she continued to fight against the ropes. Faintly, through the gunnysack she watched a light grow. It was like the slow rising of the morning sun.

  Nothing more beautiful here in this cold, dark grave!

  “Hold on,” Myra said. “I’m coming down!”

  Jay heard a grunt and a thud as Myra dropped into the hole beside her. Jay tried to tell the young woman that she was tied, but Myra must have seen the ropes already. She said, “Here, here—let me get those.”

  Jay heard the knife slicing through the hemp. Myra must have had a small knife because it took what seemed forever for her to chew through the ropes. In the meantime, Jay kept listening for the clatter of the wagon. She wanted so much to get out of this hole that it took all of her might to keep from thrashing around violently and making it impossible for Myra to free her.

  Myra said, “There!” and the ropes around Jay’s waist came loose. Jay’s arms ached from pinched blood flow, so she was able to help Myra only a little in lifting the sack from her head. Suddenly, fresh air engulfed her and she saw the shadowy figure of the curly-haired young woman kneeling before her, sparsely lit with weak, red light from a lamp perched near the square hole in the floor above them.

  Jay grunted against the gag, shaking her head. “Here, here,” Myra said. “Let me help.”

  Myra took the folding barlow knife in her teeth and reached around to untie the gag. When Jay felt it go slack in her mouth, she spat it out and gulped air pouring into the hole from above.

  “Oh, God!” she raked out in a mad rush of relief.

  “Are your ankles tied?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll get them.”

  “Hurry!”

  “I will!”

  “They might come back.”

  “Don’t worry.” Myra lifted her head to stare frankly into Jay’s. “I came armed. If those rascals come back, I’ll blow them out of their boots!”

  Jay laughed huskily, deeply relieved. Still, she couldn’t get out of the hole fast enough. As soon as Myra’s knife had chewed through the ropes on her ankles, she rose to her feet. She was very unsteady. The hole was about six feet deep. With Myra grabbing her around the waist and lifting, Jay reached up, nudged the lamp out of her way, and snaked her arms through the hole, planting her elbows to either side. With great effort and much grunting and cursing and Myra pushing from below, she hoisted herself up through the hole and then rolled away from the hole along the floor.

  She gained her knees, caught her breath, and then turned to the hole to help Myra. There was no need. The girl leaped upward, thrusting her head, shoulders, and arms out of the hole and then easily hoisted her legs out, as well.

  Jay threw herself at the young woman, hugging her tightly, sobbing. “Oh, God!” she cried. “How did you ever find me?”

  Myra hugged her back. “I followed you out from town. I’m so glad you’re all right, Jay. I wasn’t sure what they had in mind.”

  “You followed me?”

  “I heard someone around the freight office earlier, looking for me, I think. One of them must have been spying on me, the other on you. When you headed this way, they . . .”

  “Right.” Jay cursed. “Cisco! He sicced them on us, probably told them that if it looked like we were going to interfere, to step in.”

  “I think the other one planned to kidnap me just like they did you, but I heard him outside, blew out my lamp, and headed outside by the back door. I hid in the wagon shed. He tried to find me, and when he finally gave up, I followed him . . . to where they grabbed you. I ran back and saddled my horse, and followed you here.”

  “Cisco,” Jay said again, tightly, angrily, shaking her head. “I wonder if he planned to leave me down there . . . forever.” She looked into the gaping cellar hole in the floor beside her and gave a shudder. She looked around the small, crudely appointed cabin. “Where are we, anyway? What is this place?”

  “We’re in Redstone Canyon, one canyon east of Horsetooth Station at the base of Horsetooth Rock. This is Tumbling Box H Range. This must be one of Jason Hall’s line shacks, maybe a roundup cabin.”

  “Figures.” Jay glanced at the hole again and hugged herself. “Under the circumstances, it gives me the creeps. Let’s get out of here. You said you have a horse?”

  “Yeah, my filly is up in the rocks behind the cabin. I wasn’t sure if any of Hall’s men were still here, so I came up from behind.”

  “I wonder if they’re robbing, or did rob, that gold tonight,” Jay said, heaving herself to her feet, wrinkling her nose against the smell of the gunnysack clinging to her like a second skin. “That’s why they needed us out of
the way tonight.”

  “Could be,” Myra said, also rising and dusting floor grime from her denims. “Or maybe it’s still on their schedule.”

  “In that case, we’d better get back to town and have your boyfriend alert the other sheriff’s deputies, maybe form a posse.” Jay started for the door, but Myra grabbed her hand, stopping her.

  The younger woman’s eyes glinted anxiously in the weak light from the lamp on the floor. “Del’s the reason I wrote that note to you asking you to visit me at the freight yard.”

  “Del is?”

  “Jay, Del disappeared. I haven’t seen him for two days. Day before yesterday, he said he was going to ride out to Horsetooth Station and tell the station manager what you overheard about the planned robbery, and do some sniffing around Hall’s ranch.”

  “And he never made it back to town?”

  Myra shook her head. “No, he’s not my beau, you understand—we’re just friends—but I’ve been worried sick about him. I wanted to talk to you about it, but I didn’t think we should be seen together.”

  “Right, right. Good thinking.” Jay stared off, not seeing anything but thinking, worrying. “Poor Del. I hope I haven’t gotten him in trouble now, too.” She turned to Myra. “Did you talk to the other sheriff’s deputies?”

  Myra nodded. “And . . .”

  “They told me not to worry about it. That they’d look into it.”

  “And . . .”

  “Nothing. No word from them so far.” Myra reached out and squeezed Jay’s hand again. It was a desperate squeeze. “Jay . . . I have a feeling those two might be in on it . . . right along with Hall and Walsh.”

  That made Jay’s head reel. “If so, what are we going to do?”

  “I sure wish Slash and Pecos were here. They’d know what to do.”

  “I know. But they’re not due back for another two days.”

  Myra opened her mouth to speak again but closed it when hooves drummed in the distance. She and Jay gasped at the same time. The drumming was growing louder. Riders were heading toward the cabin.