A Stone Creek Collection Volume 1

by Linda Lael Miller

  “Why should I tell you any damn thing at all?” Mungo retorted.

  Sam drew his pistol and opened the shed door slowly, in case Donagher was poised to jump him.

  Mungo lay curled on the dirt floor, just where Sam had left him.

  “Ben’s your own flesh and blood,” Sam said evenly. “He’s just a kid, and he’s probably in danger. Not that I think you’ve ever paid him much attention, but even you ought to have some idea where he’d hole up.”

  “He’d go to his mama’s grave, most likely,” Mungo allowed, but grudgingly. “He was always mooning over Elsie, even though he never knew her. I told him she wasn’t coming back, that she was nothing but bones by the time she’d been a year in the ground, but he didn’t listen.”

  “He’d be at the cemetery, then?” Sam was running out of time. He thought back to Garrett’s funeral and the spot where he was buried, and hoped to God he’d find Ben there. He was shutting the door when Mungo finally troubled himself to answer.

  “Elsie ain’t buried in town. She’s on the ranch, next to Hildy.”

  Sam considered that. Ben had no business wandering abroad at night, but if he’d gone to the ranch, he was five miles or better from Haven. Considering what was coming, he was probably safer there, for all the dangers he might encounter.

  “Untie me,” Mungo drawled. “Let me go. I’ll take to the road and nobody’ll be the wiser.”

  “Save your breath, old man,” Sam said, and shut the door.

  “I’ll see you’re paid for your trouble!” Mungo pressed. “Right handsomely, too!”

  Sam turned and walked away.

  He heard the horses, a dozen or more, just as he rounded the bend in the road, the one that would take him back into Haven. And he knew by the direction that it wasn’t the posses coming from Tombstone and Tucson.

  Ducking into the brush at the side of the road, Sam bolted for the jailhouse, one hand on the butt of his pistol even as he ran. He got inside just before the first spray of bullets peppered the facade.

  “Put out that goddamned lantern!” he bellowed as Vierra and Rhodes scrambled to get ready for the fight.

  The lantern flame winked into darkness.

  * * *

  TERRAN TOOK A MAN’S GRIP on Maddie’s hand when the shooting broke out, and she was distracted, for one blessed moment, by his strength. They landed hard behind a horse trough, too far from the store to take shelter there.

  “Stay down!” Terran rasped.

  It was her instinct to protect him, but something had shifted. He was protecting her. “What’s happening?” she whispered as they clung to each other.

  “I don’t know,” Terran answered, breathless, his arm across Maddie’s back, keeping her down, out of the way of bullets. “Sam—Mr. O’Ballivan—told me to find you and take you home. Said to keep ourselves to the back of the building.”

  Maddie struggled to orient herself and Terran in relation to the gunfire. “The jailhouse!” she croaked, and tried to rise. Sam was there, she knew it, and he was fixing to get himself killed, just like Warren had. She wasn’t about to stand for that.

  But Terran, a scrawny boy of twelve, would not be moved.

  “Maddie,” he barked, “you stay put!”

  She began to tremble. Sam couldn’t die. He couldn’t. “Dear God,” she choked out. “What if they kill him?” They, she realized, in the space of a moment, meant the Donaghers, Landry and Rex. They’d assembled a gang of drifters and bandits and gone to the jail to break Mungo out.

  “Right now,” Terran said reasonably, “we’ve got enough to reckon with. I mean to see that they don’t kill us!”

  A splintered silence fell, but it was all too brief. Gunfire erupted again, with a vengeance, and it sounded to Maddie like two armies clashing on a battlefield.

  “Sam is there,” she said, wanting to weep.

  “Yes,” Terran replied, confirming her worst fear. She’d hoped against hope he’d say no, say he’d seen Sam last at the schoolhouse, where he’d be safe. “And the best thing you can do to help him is keep out of the way!”

  “Shouldn’t we try to get back to the store?” Maddie wasn’t used to deferring to Terran. It felt strange, and she did not want to make a habit of it.

  “When there’s a lull,” Terran agreed.

  But the lull was a long time coming.

  Maddie broke free of her brother’s grasp just long enough to peer over the edge of the trough. It was dark and yet she could see plainly all the way down the street to the jailhouse, as though by some otherworldly illumination.

  Terran wrenched her down again.

  “We can’t stay here,” Maddie told him.

  “We’re not moving,” Terran argued.

  Maddie looked behind her. Only a few feet of sidewalk separated them from the sheltering space between the telegraph office and the feed-and-grain. From there, they could dash to the alley and take the back way to the store. If she could just get to her shotgun…

  She heard riders then, dozens of them, it sounded like, coming from the south. Maddie held her breath, assembling every stray smidgeon of strength. She could break away from Terran, but if she did, he’d surely follow, none too carefully.

  “Terran, listen to me,” she pleaded. “We must get off the street!”

  He turned his head, studied her solemnly, and for a long time. Meanwhile, the shooting intensified to a new pitch. A bullet struck the other side of the trough and water gurgled out.

  Maddie couldn’t help thinking of it as life’s blood—Terran’s, Sam’s, her own. “Come on!” she cried. Clasping Terran’s hand, she got partway to her feet, pulling him after her. They ran, half crouched, for safety.

  Heart pounding, Maddie paused between the two buildings to drag in great, gasping gulps of air. Terran, too, was breathing hard, but he recovered more quickly than Maddie and took the lead again, hauling her through to the alley.

  When they reached the back door of the mercantile, it was all Maddie could do not to fling herself down on the kitchen floor. Instead she let go of Terran’s hand and ran for the front of the store to fetch her shotgun.

  She was vaguely aware of Neptune, barking at the top of the stairs.

  Just as she reached the counter, the front door exploded inward, crashing against the wall. The glass shattered and a man wearing a bandanna over his face burst inside, looking wildly around him, failing to notice Maddie in the darkness. She watched, frozen, as he went for the boxes of bullets and began grabbing them up.

  Maddie’s palms sweated on the stock of the shotgun.

  “Stop!” she ordered.

  The intruder whirled in her direction and she saw the glint of a pistol barrel. At the same moment he fired, Maddie was jerked off her feet. She landed hard on the floor behind the counter and the shotgun went off, blowing a hole in the ceiling.

  “What—?”

  Terran glared at her and jerked the shotgun out of her hands. Cocked it hard. Where had he learned to do that?

  “Shut up, Maddie,” he said.

  The robber rounded the end of the counter just then, pistol at the ready, but he never got a chance to fire because Terran beat him to it.

  The roar of that shotgun was deafening. The smells of gunpowder and blood filled Maddie’s nostrils and the smoke made her blink. Maybe it was a mercy that it all happened so fast, that she didn’t see the man’s chest explode.

  “I had to do it,” Terran said.

  Maddie didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer.

  * * *

  SLOWLY, CAREFULLY, Rex Donagher raised his head. It hurt like holy bejesus, and he figured his nose was broken. He put a hand to his face and it came away bloody. Turned onto his back with a groan.

  He was still a man, living and breathing. Not a carcass, but a man.

  An unexpected blessing.

  It was then that he registered the sound of gunfire—distant pops, flying fierce and fast.

  The fog clouding Rex’s vision began to clear a li
ttle. He bestirred himself to sit up and failed, fighting the dizziness that swooped down on him like some big, dark bird, beating its wings, pecking at his skull, talons bared to tear flesh.

  Reason, never swift in coming, assembled itself slowly in Rex’s pounding head.

  The bastards. The bastards. Tom and the others, they were down there right now, shooting up the jailhouse, maybe the whole piece-of-shit town, robbing him of the just pleasure of vengeance. They’d left him behind. Probably reckoned him for dead.

  He tried to sit up, but the motion was like an ax-blow to his skull. Bile scalded its way up his windpipe and he rolled onto his belly again to vomit in the dirt.

  When the spate had passed, he spat and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his coat. After a few deep breaths, he made another attempt to get to his knees, and this time he succeeded.

  There were shouts from below and the beating of horses’ hooves.

  By now, his pa was surely dead, along with a lot of other folks.

  And he’d missed the whole damn party.

  He spotted his horse, wandering fitfully nearby. Grazing on the dry grass. He whistled once, twice. Low and easy, so’s not to scare the animal off.

  The horse came, finally. Rex grabbed hold of one stirrup and hauled himself to his feet. He knew he’d pass out again, if he tried to mount up, let alone ride, and if that happened, he’d be a sitting duck when the others came back.

  He fumbled for his saddlebags, murmuring to the horse.

  The animal wanted to shy but was well trained by years of range work. Or maybe the horse just knew Rex would shoot him if he didn’t settle down. For all Rex’s kindly words, he would have. He surely would have, if it came to that.

  At last, he got one of the bags open, reached inside, found his pouch of tobacco. He fumbled past that, going deeper and deeper until he finally closed a hand over what he really wanted—the small box of matches he carried for lighting up a smoke or starting a campfire.

  He dropped the matches, fell to his knees to recover them. The horse pranced nervously, nearly trampling him. He shoved at the animal with one hand, got hold of the little box with the other.

  He muttered to himself as he struck the first match.

  They’d brought it on themselves. All of them. Tom and the others. His pa. Sam O’Ballivan and the Mexican, Vierra. Oralee Pringle and that snooty Maddie Chancelor, who turned up her pretty nose at the likes of him. Once, he’d asked her to dance, at a party behind the Cattleman’s Bank, and she’d turned him down. She’d spoken kindly enough, but he’d seen the contempt in her eyes. Oh, yes, he’d seen.

  She thought he’d killed Warren Debney. Well, the joke was on her, Rex thought, because it was Pa done that. He’d believed she’d turn to him in her sorrow, the old fool.

  He tossed the match into a thicket of sagebrush and it went up with a satisfying burst of heat and flame, just like that bush in the Good Book. Only the Lord wouldn’t be talking out of this one. No, sir. It was Rex Donagher talking now, and the message was plain enough.

  They could go to hell.

  The whole bunch of them could just go straight to hell.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  THE SHOOTING DWINDLED, then stopped.

  Sam, crouched just inside the jailhouse door, the .45 grasped in his right hand, waited a few beats before he dared peer around the frame to take in the scene in the street.

  Men lay sprawled everywhere, their horses long since scattered for parts unknown. The air was acrid with smoke, and the silence seemed to pulse with echoes of the battle.

  “You men all right in there?” a voice called.

  Vierra, on his haunches under the window, glanced in Sam’s direction.

  A form took shape, out of the darkness, followed by another, and then another. Light caught on a star-shaped badge.

  “No casualties,” Sam answered after looking over his shoulder. Rhodes was just putting his pistol away, and the dog was in one piece, too. “Did you fare as well?”

  “One man winged,” the marshal answered, coming toward them. He was tall and thin, with a handlebar mustache and the quiet competence of an able gunman. The brim of a round black hat shadowed his features. “He’ll be all right, once we get him back to Tombstone so he can be tended.”

  Sam holstered the .45 and went out to greet the other man.

  “You got more problems than these here dead outlaws,” the marshal said.

  Sam saw it then. The red glow of a wildfire racing downhill toward the town.

  “Holy Christ,” he breathed.

  The marshal turned to address his men, who’d been moving among the bodies, checking for pulses, or maybe loot. “Start knocking on doors,” he told them calmly. “Rouse folks and tell ’em to run for the river. Leave their belongings behind.”

  A second lawman appeared from the gloom. “Get over to the livery stable,” he said to his own posse. “Turn them horses loose.”

  Maddie, Sam thought, and bolted for the mercantile.

  He found her kneeling beside a dead man, while Terran crouched opposite. The dog was there, too, holding back, sniffing anxiously at the night air.

  “There’s a wildfire coming!” Sam yelled, hauling Maddie to her feet. “Get down to the river as fast as you can!”

  Maddie struggled, pulling toward the stairs. “Mama’s sheet music—my money—”

  “No time!” Sam retorted. A hellish glow shone at the window now, and folks and horses were fleeing through the streets, making plenty of noise while they were at it. The fire, a distant hum only moments before, was roaring toward them. “You’ve got to run for it, Maddie—as hard and as fast as you can!”

  “Terran!” she gasped, coming to herself, glancing wildly around until she spotted her brother.

  Terran scooped Neptune up into his arms, shoved him at Maddie. “The horses are tied up out back!” he cried, and turned to run for the rear of the store.

  Sam caught him by the back of his shirt, flung him toward the front door. “I’ll get them!” he said when Terran hesitated.

  Maddie stared up at him blankly, clutching the dog in both arms, her heart in her eyes. “I’m not going anywhere without you, Sam O’Ballivan,” she said.

  Sam cursed, because he knew she meant it. Knew, too, that there were implications he’d want to examine later, if he survived this accursed night. Short of carrying her over his shoulder, he couldn’t make her move, and he couldn’t let that sorry old two-horse team of hers burn to a crisp in the lot behind the store, either.

  He ran past the curtain, through the kitchen beyond, out the back door. The horses were screaming in fear, their eyes rolling.

  Sam cut the lines with his pocketknife, thanking God for old, frayed rope, and threw open the wire gate. He swatted the panicked animals hard on the flanks to drive them out. From there, they’d have to fend for themselves.

  The fire was less than a hundred yards away, hot enough to raise blisters on Sam’s back as he dashed, coughing, into the store again. Maddie, Terran and the dog were still standing in the middle of the floor, as if they’d turned to stone. Terran clasped what looked like the cash box under one arm and a shotgun in the other.

  “Violet and Hittie!” Maddie blurted.

  “It’s too late!” Sam retorted, and lifted Maddie right off her feet, dog and all. He sprinted for the front door, Terran close behind, and they joined the rushing throng of people and horses and bawling milk cows headed for the river.

  The fire pursued them, even as it gobbled at walls and danced on roofs. The sound was like nothing Sam had ever heard. The heat seared his flesh, right through his clothes.

  And still he ran.

  Past the bodies of the outlaws, scattered in the street.

  Past the bend in the road, and the schoolhouse, with the red glow of the fire glaring on its face. Sam grieved for his books; knew he couldn’t save them. He went on and put Maddie down at last, on the riverbank, sent her stumbling toward the water with a hard push. Went back to
turn loose Charlie Wilcox’s old horse, tethered behind the school, and despaired of his own, left behind at the jailhouse.

  He’d never even given the gelding a name.

  He might have forgotten all about Mungo Donagher, if the old man hadn’t thrown his weight against the inside of the shed door and come tumbling out, still bound from head to foot.

  Sam got out his knife again, severed the bonds at Mungo’s ankles, and dragged him toward the river, with his hands still cuffed behind his back and his ropes making him hobble like a turkey with its feet tied together.

  * * *

  MADDIE SAT, dazed, on the wet, smooth stones next to the river, amid horses and dogs and stricken people, watching as the flames lashed, angry and crimson-orange against the night sky, consuming Haven. Consuming everything she knew, everything she owned.

  And still it moved closer, that ravenous, flickering beast.

  Mexicans began to cross the river, on horseback, on burros, on the rickety rafts they used for fishing.

  “Come,” they said in anxious Spanish, gathering up sobbing women, wandering children, old men enervated by smoke and heat and sorrow. Over and over, they ferried back and forth, back and forth, stolidly carrying bewildered humanity to the other side.

  Maddie waited stubbornly, still clutching Neptune to her bosom, watching anxiously for Sam.

  The fire drew nearer, and hotter. It consumed the schoolhouse and the woodshed behind it. Only when Terran pleaded did Maddie allow herself to be taken. Only then. And she would not let go of the dog.

  She crossed the river on the back of a burro, with Terran riding behind her, his arms tight around her middle, while she still clutched Neptune.

  “Miss Maddie?”

  Maddie slid down off the burro’s back, on the Refugio side. Her eyes burned from smoke and heat and pure despair, and at first, she did not trust them. She blinked.

  “Violet?”

  The little girl grinned up at her, face sooty, clothes blackened, but apparently unhurt. “You better put down that dog, Miss Maddie,” Violet said practically.

  Dr. Sanchez appeared, took Neptune gently from Maddie’s embrace, set him on his feet, gave her a hasty examination. Then he went back to his work among the rescued, tending burns, offering what comfort he could.