Brotherhood of Evil

by William W. Johnstone

  She wished she had her carbine, too. Cal’s Winchester lay on the table and she could use it if she needed to, but a weapon with a shorter barrel was easier for her to handle. She was more accurate with a carbine, too.

  She had just taken a sip of coffee when three thuds sounded in rapid succession on the shack’s roof. Her head came up sharply.

  That was the signal for trouble. Pearlie had pitched down three small rocks from the top of the ridge, one after the other, aiming them at the roof. They had agreed on that when the men first started standing watch, but it was the first time any of them had used the signal.

  “Cal!” Sally said as she leaped to her feet. “Pearlie’s spotted something.”

  The cowboy came out of the blankets thrashing and sputtering, got his wits about him quickly, and snatched the Winchester from the table. “He gave the signal?”

  “Three rocks landed on the roof, one right after the other,” Sally confirmed.

  “Dang it! That means trouble, all right.” He hurried over to the door and eased it open a crack. The line shack didn’t have any windows, although there were loopholes in all four walls where folks inside could fire rifles if they were forced to defend the place.

  Cal put his eye to the narrow opening and peered out. After a moment he said, “I can’t see anything. Maybe I better go out there and take a look around.” He drew his Colt from its holster and half-turned to extend it toward Sally. “Here, Miss Sally. You hang on to this, in case you need it.”

  She took the gun from him. “Be careful, Cal.”

  “I wish there was some way for Pearlie to let us know what he saw from up yonder. If we stay here for very long, we’re gonna have to work on that.”

  On that hopeful note, Cal slowly opened the door wider. In the wild country, movement was what attracted the eye, so he continued to take it slow and easy as he slid out of the line shack.

  Sally didn’t realize she was holding her breath. When she finally had to take a breath, it was shallow and quiet as if she worried that whoever was outside might hear it.

  She jumped a little as a figure appeared in the door, but it was only Cal coming back. He said excitedly, “I saw a rider on the other side of the meadow coming this way.”

  “Just one man?”

  “Yeah.” Cal hurried to the fireplace. The fire had burned down to embers and was barely putting out any smoke. “Maybe he didn’t see that, and the wind’s from the wrong direction for him to smell the fire. Maybe he’ll ride up without knowing that anybody’s here, and we can get the drop on him.”

  “You’re sure it’s one of Trask’s men?”

  “Who else would it be? As far as we know, they’re running this whole part of the country now.”

  He was right about that, Sally thought. Trask was bound to have searchers out looking for her, and the rider was probably one of them.

  The horses they had ridden were in a shed at the back of the line shack. The stranger wouldn’t be able to see them as he approached. Cal had pulled the door closed when he came in, so from outside the shack ought to look like it was deserted. The man would want to have a look inside it anyway, just to make sure his quarry wasn’t hiding there.

  “We need to grab him if we can,” Cal went on. “He’ll have guns, ammunition, maybe a few supplies. And he’s got a horse. We need a mount for you, Miss Sally.”

  “And boots. Maybe I’d be able to wear his boots.”

  “Yeah, we’ll get you outfitted.” Cal hesitated. “If he’s one of those gun-wolves who work for Trask, chances are he’s not gonna give up without a fight.”

  Sally’s hand tightened on the revolver. “Then we’ll just have to give him one.”

  Chapter 32

  Sally and Cal flanked the doorway with their backs pressed against the rough log wall. At Cal’s insistence, she stood where the open door would shield her, so the stranger wouldn’t be able to see her right away.

  “I can shoot him as soon as he comes in,” Cal suggested.

  “We’re not certain he works for Trask,” Sally pointed out. “He could be some innocent cowboy riding the grub line. We can’t risk that.”

  “Not likely he is, but I’ll hold my fire unless I have to shoot. Maybe I can knock him out, so we can tie him up and then find out who he is.”

  That sounded like a workable idea to Sally. She said as much, then added, “Just be careful. I don’t want anything happening to you.”

  “Me, neither,” Cal said with a grin.

  Sally figured that up on the ridge, Pearlie was going crazy because he couldn’t get down to help them. If he moved from his hiding place, the approaching rider was bound to see him and know that something was wrong. That would ruin their chances of capturing the man.

  The few minutes it took for him to cross the meadow seemed to last forever. Finally, Sally and Cal heard hoofbeats outside. They stopped as the rider reined to a halt in front of the line shack.

  A moment later, spurs chinged softly as the man approached the door. They heard a little thump, and the door swung open. The barrel of the stranger’s rifle came into view, and Sally knew he had used it to push the door open. That was what they had heard.

  He didn’t come the rest of the way in. He was being careful. He called, “Hey, anybody in there? I don’t mean any harm. Not lookin’ for any trouble.”

  Sally and Cal didn’t respond. They stood absolutely motionless and silent, not even breathing.

  “Just seen this line shack,” the man went on. “Figured I might stay here a spell and rest my hoss. Don’t want to intrude on nobody, though.”

  The voice wasn’t familiar to her at all. The man really was a stranger, and that meant in all likelihood he was one of Jonas Trask’s hired guns.

  But they still couldn’t be a hundred percent certain, so she waited and hoped Cal would do the same.

  The rifle barrel poked farther into the shack. The man’s footsteps were heavy as he advanced warily. The light was considerably dimmer inside than it was outside, so he had to wait for his eyes to adjust.

  Cal decided that he had waited long enough.

  Sally heard him spring forward. She held the revolver in both hands and kicked the door out of the way in time to see him try to slam the Winchester’s butt against the back of the stranger’s head.

  Unfortunately, the man either heard Cal or instinctively sensed what was about to happen and reacted with the speed of a striking snake, twisting aside so the rifle butt struck his left shoulder. The blow staggered him, but it didn’t make him fall down or drop his rifle.

  He swung the barrel toward Cal and pulled the trigger. The shot was ear-numbingly loud in the line shack’s close confines.

  With the man between her and Cal, she couldn’t see if the youngster was hit. She couldn’t blaze away with the Colt in her hands, either. If she missed she might shoot Cal herself.

  She leaped toward the stranger and chopped at his head with the revolver. The blow landed with a solid thud and knocked the man forward. He dropped to his knees. Relieved to see that Cal was still on his feet and didn’t seem to be hurt, it was evident the man’s shot had missed him.

  Cal moved in and landed a solid stroke to the jaw with the Winchester’s stock. The blow knocked the man sprawling on the puncheon floor. He managed to hang on to his rifle, though, and as he rolled over, he worked the lever. Flame spat from the muzzle as another sharp crack rang out.

  Cal launched himself in a dive at Sally at the same time, yelling, “Look out, Miss Sally!” He crashed into her and knocked her off her feet. The slug whipped through the air beside her head, narrowly missing her.

  Sally hit the floor hard. The impact jolted the gun out of her hands and it clattered away from her. Cal rolled, trying to get up, whirl around, and defend them.

  A few feet away, the stranger struggled up to his knees and shook his head groggily. He yelled, “You nearly stove my head in! If Trask didn’t want you alive, you’d pay for that, by God!” He turned the rifle tow
ard Cal and snarled, “But you, kid. Nobody cares if you live or die!”

  He was about to fire again and send a bullet ripping through Cal when a shot blasted thunderously from the doorway. The slug punched into his chest and knocked him over backwards. The rifle flew out of his hands.

  Breathless, Sally looked at the door and saw Pearlie standing there. Smoke curled from the muzzle of the Winchester he held. He levered the weapon and said coldly, “You’re wrong. I care.”

  “And so do I, Pearlie,” Sally said. “You got here just in time.”

  “Aw, I woulda had him,” Cal muttered, but all three of them knew that wasn’t true. The youngster wore a look of profound gratitude on his face as he nodded to Pearlie, who returned the nod in a moment of silent communication that was all the two friends needed.

  Pearlie came into the shack and covered the fallen gunman as he approached.

  Sally asked, “Is he dead?”

  “Yep,” Pearlie replied. “One of Trask’s men, I reckon?”

  “Yes. I didn’t recognize him, but he said something about Trask wanting me to be taken alive, so that’s proof enough as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Me, too,” Pearlie agreed. “Sorry I didn’t get here sooner. I started climbin’ down as soon as he got to where he couldn’t see me.”

  “You made it in time,” Sally told him. “That’s all that really matters.”

  Pearlie finally lowered the rifle. “Now we’ve got another problem. The shack walls probably muffled those shots some, but sound carries a long way in this thin air. There are bound to be more of Trask’s men not far off, and there’s a good chance they heard the shootin’. They’ll come arunnin’ to find out what it’s about.”

  Cal said, “So we need to saddle up and get out of here while we’ve got the chance.”

  “Yeah. Hate to lose this hideout, but I don’t think we have a choice. At least we’ve got this fella’s horse now, so all three of us can have a mount.”

  “And I’m taking his boots.” Sally steeled herself to carry out the unpleasant task of removing them from the dead man’s feet.

  Pearlie sensed what she was feeling. “I’ll do that for you, Miss Sally. Kid, grab this jasper’s horse and make sure it don’t get away, then throw the saddles on the other two.”

  “You bet, Pearlie.” Cal hurried to carry out the orders.

  Pearlie bent to take off the dead man’s boots. “Miss Sally, if you’ll get his rifle while I’m doin’ this . . .”

  “Of course.” She picked up the fallen rifle and retrieved the Colt she had dropped.

  Pearlie traded the boots for the guns. He tucked the extra revolver behind his belt.

  Sally sat down on one of the bunks to pull the boots on her feet. The thought that they had come from a dead man—one of their enemies—made a little shiver go through her, but she wasn’t going to let that stop her from wearing them.

  “How do they fit?” Pearlie asked as she stood up and stomped her feet down in them.

  “They’re too big. If I had a couple extra pairs of socks, they wouldn’t be too bad, but they’ll do for now. They’re a lot better than nothing.”

  “That’s the way life is, all right. Make do with what you can get. And right now we got to get—”

  Cal burst through the open door and yelled, “Too late! Here they come!”

  As if to confirm his warning, guns cracked and boomed outside, and bullets began to whistle through the door as Cal yelped and dived out of the line of fire.

  Pearlie grabbed Sally and swung her away from the door. He kicked it shut and told Cal, “Bar it!”

  Cal scrambled to his feet and dropped the bar over the door. It wasn’t nearly as sturdy as the one in the bunkhouse, but it would keep intruders out for a while.

  Pearlie handed Sally the rifle he had taken from her only a few minutes earlier.

  Cal had already put his eye to one of the loopholes to study the situation outside. “Looks like half a dozen of ’em,” he reported. “It’s a flat-out charge across the meadow.”

  Bullets thudded into the door and the thick walls of the line shack but didn’t penetrate.

  Pearlie slid the barrel of his Winchester through another loophole. “Let’s make ’em think twice about that.”

  Sally joined them at the wall and thrust the barrel of the dead man’s rifle through another opening. “We’ll give them a warm welcome.”

  “Not warm,” Pearlie said. “Hot. Hot lead all the way.”

  The three of them proceeded to do just that as they opened fire and gun thunder filled the inside of the line shack.

  But even as they fought valiantly, they knew how desperate their predicament was. They were outnumbered, outgunned, and pinned down. They could make the enemy pay a price, but they couldn’t win.

  Unless something happened to change the odds, by the time it was over, they would all be prisoners—or dead.

  Chapter 33

  Smoke hauled back on the reins as he heard a pair of muffled booms in the distance. The shots were separated by a minute or so. He thought they came from a rifle. “What do you think, Dog?”

  Preacher had sent the big cur with him, thinking it would be easier to sneak into Big Rock without Dog along. The varmint hadn’t been happy about being separated from his trail partner, but he had gone along with what Preacher had told him.

  With the fur on his neck bristling, Dog looked up the wooded slope in the direction the shots had come from and growled.

  “Yeah, that’s what I was thinking.” Smoke turned his horse and sent the animal up the slope. The shots had come from somewhere above him, and he wanted to find out what they meant.

  Also, this was his range, and if somebody was shooting up there, he had a right to know what the ruckus was about.

  After leaving Matt and Preacher on the road outside Big Rock, he had circled wide around the settlement, using his extensive knowledge of the area to figure out the quickest way to reach Sugarloaf. He had considered riding straight to the ranch headquarters, then decided against that idea and circled again, even though that delayed him more.

  If anyone was lying in wait for him, it was better to approach from the direction opposite what they would expect. A big part of winning any battle was being where the enemy didn’t think you would be.

  He’d heard those shots and was getting farther from the ranch headquarters, rather than closer. Anxious to see Sally again and make sure she was all right, the postponement chafed at him. He climbed a couple hundred feet, hoping it wouldn’t take him long to check out the gunfire.

  As the slope began to level out, he recognized the landscape. He was approaching a big meadow used for summer graze. One of the more isolated line shacks was located up here.

  Suddenly, more shots roared and shattered the high country stillness. It was a full-fledged volley, and it wasn’t far away. Smoke pulled his rifle from its saddle scabbard and urged his horse to move faster.

  He reached the edge of the trees bordering the meadow and saw half a dozen men on horseback riding away from him. They galloped toward the line shack visible in the distance, all of them blasting away with rifles and pistols as they charged.

  Puffs of powder smoke came from the loopholes in the shack’s front wall. From the looks of it, several people were holed up in there defending themselves.

  From his angle he couldn’t tell much about the men attacking the shack. At first glance, none of their horses looked familiar, but that didn’t mean all that much.

  Based on what Preacher had overheard, it seemed likely the men were part of the same bunch that had taken over Big Rock. Worried that they would move in on Sugarloaf, Smoke guessed that some of his men were holed up in the shack.

  Even if he wasn’t sure exactly what was going on, he knew he had to take a hand in it. He couldn’t sit by and do nothing.

  He heeled his horse into motion again and galloped after the attackers.

  Firing from the saddle, he sent a couple rounds whi
stling over their heads to see what they would do. Two of the men immediately split off from the others and wheeled around to meet the new threat. Smoke grabbed the reins and slowed his horse. His eyes were keen enough that he could make out the men’s faces. He had never seen either of them before.

  They didn’t hesitate. They opened fire on him.

  So be it, thought Smoke. They had called the tune. They could dance to it.

  Once again, he lifted the Winchester to his shoulder and started shooting. His movements were sure and smooth as he worked the rifle’s lever between rounds. Five shots erupted from the Winchester while he ignored the wildly aimed slugs that whined around him. Both men pitched from their saddles and landed in limp, bullet-riddled heaps.

  Smoke switched his attention back to the others. One of the remaining four was down, he saw, doubtless knocked off his horse by a shot from inside the line shack. The other three slowed their charge and began to mill around. They suddenly realized they had gone from having the advantage to being in deep trouble in the blink of an eye. They were caught in a crossfire, and as Smoke drilled another man, the two who hadn’t been hit yet yanked their horses around and raced away at an angle, taking off for the tall and uncut.

  One of the racing horses stumbled and fell, sending its rider sailing over its head. Smoke aimed at the lone remaining rider and fired again. The man kept going for about twenty yards before slowly toppling out of the saddle. He bounced once when he hit the ground, then didn’t move again.

  Smoke rode hard toward the man who had been thrown when his horse went down. He wanted a prisoner to question, and that hombre had the best chance of still being alive.

  The fallen man was alive, all right. In fact, he leaped up and muzzle flame spouted from the gun in his fist. Smoke aimed for his right shoulder, but the man shifted just as Smoke squeezed the trigger. The bullet caught him in the throat, tore all the way through, and exploded out the back of his neck. He dropped like a rag doll.

  Smoke grimaced as he lowered the rifle and slowed his horse again. His shot had been aimed true. There was nothing he could do about where it had ended up.