Brotherhood of Evil

by William W. Johnstone

  Once he got past the rocks and the thickets, the top of the hill was actually rather idyllic—level, grassy, and dotted with trees. It didn’t take long to have a good look around and confirm that Matt and Preacher weren’t there.

  Not a good sign, but it didn’t necessarily mean anything bad had happened to them. After all, they hadn’t set a time for meeting. It was entirely possible that they were still poking around Big Rock.

  Smoke went back down the hill and rejoined Pearlie and Cal. They could see on his face what he’d found.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” Pearlie said. “If there’s anybody who can take care of themselves, it’s those two fellas.”

  “Yeah,” Cal chimed in. “I’d hate to have to tangle with Matt and Preacher.”

  Smoke knew they were right. “Let’s split up so we can cover all the approaches to the hill. That way if either of them show up, we’ll see them coming.”

  They climbed the hill and divided the surrounding landscape into rough thirds and found good places to stay out of sight while they kept an eye on Knob Hill. The afternoon passed in tedious fashion. Once Smoke spotted some riders about half a mile away and knew they were probably Trask’s men. The patrol passed by at an angle, however, and didn’t come close to the hill.

  When the sun began to lower toward the western horizon, Smoke knew Pearlie and Cal would be rejoining him soon. He had told them that if no one showed up by the end of the day, they should come back to where they had left him.

  Sure enough, less than five minutes apart, they came into the rocks and trees where he was hidden. Their glum silence was all the testimony Smoke needed. They hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Matt and Preacher, either.

  Pearlie scratched his angular, beard-stubbled jaw. “I would’ve thought they’d be here by now.”

  “Yeah, me, too,” Smoke said.

  “What are we gonna do?” Cal asked.

  Smoke suspected that they knew the answer to that question as well as he did. There was really only one thing they could do. “We’re going to Big Rock.”

  Chapter 52

  The day had been one of the longest in Matt’s memory. His head still ached from being knocked out the night before, but for the most part, he was able to ignore the dull throbbing.

  It was harder to ignore the thought that he had failed and let Smoke down. Matt felt a lot of the same sort of admiration a younger brother felt for an older, even though they were adopted siblings and not blood relatives. The last thing in the world he wanted to do was disappoint Smoke.

  Also, he was downright angry at the men who had raided the settlement and kidnapped Sally. They had a whole hell of a lot to answer for.

  Preacher wasn’t happy, either. He had lived wild and free his whole life, and being locked up behind bars didn’t sit well with him. It put his nerves on edge. More than once during the day, he had muttered something about how being stuck in a cage gave him the fantods. He had those painful buckshot wounds to contend with, too. The little lead pellets should have been dug out already. The wounds were going to fester if they weren’t tended to.

  Monte Carson didn’t have much sympathy for them. “We’ve been locked up in here for days. I’ve heard of men behind bars going crazy from it, and I’m starting to understand why.”

  His deputy Curley said, “Aw, you ain’t gonna go loco, boss. You’re too level-headed for that.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Carson growled. “I kind of understand why an animal caught in a trap will gnaw its own leg off, too.”

  Matt had to occupy his mind with something, so he did it by trying to come up with some way for them to escape.

  Short of finding a few spare sticks of dynamite in his hip pocket, he couldn’t think of a thing.

  Late that afternoon, the jail had an unexpected visitor. Loo Chung How, the proprietor of the little café where Preacher had eaten the day before, showed up carrying a cast-iron pot with wisps of steam rising through gaps around the lid. The three guards on duty abandoned the desultory game of poker for matchsticks they were playing, stood up quickly, and rested their hands on their guns.

  “What the hell do you want, Chinaman?” one of the gunmen demanded.

  Loo held up the pot as a big smile wreathed his face. “Bringee supper for prisoners.”

  “They’ve been gettin’ meals,” another guard said. “Mostly cornbread and beans, but they ain’t been starvin’.”

  “Special Chinese soup much better,” Loo insisted. “Major Pike, he say all right to give to prisoners.”

  “You sure about that? If we go ask the major, he’s gonna back up your story?” The outlaw leered. “’Cause if you’re lyin’ to us, chink, we’ll peel that yellow hide offa you a strip at a time.”

  “No lie,” Loo insisted. “Major Pike, he say. You go ask.”

  “Ah, hell,” the third guard said. “What’s the harm in a pot of soup?” He went over to Loo. “Maybe we might want some of it, too. What’s in there? Lemme have a look.”

  Grinning, Loo lifted the lid on the pot, letting more steam rise.

  The guard leaned over it, then jerked back as his face contorted in a grimace. “Good Lord!” he exclaimed. “What the hell’s in there? Smells worse ’n possum piss.”

  Another said, “Knowin’ these Chinamen the way I do, I’ll bet there’s some dogs missin’ lately.”

  “No dog,” Loo said with an emphatic shake of his head. “Only good things. Squid, octopus, bird’s nest . . . good soup! Special Chinese dish!”

  “You know, makin’ those fellas eat this mess might be the best way of gettin’ them to cooperate,” one of the outlaws mused. “Tell ’em that if they give us any trouble, we’ll have the chink here boil ’em up another pot of it.”

  “Put that lid back on there,” ordered the man who had smelled the pot’s contents. “Come on.”

  Two guards accompanied Loo into the cell block after they unlocked the door with the keys the major had given them. Both carried shotguns.

  Matt, Preacher, Monte Carson, and Curley stood up from where they were sitting on the floor in a corner. They looked surprised at the sight of the visitor.

  “Got a treat for you boys,” one of the outlaws jeered. “The Chinaman’s brought you a special supper.”

  “Very special,” Loo agreed. “Very good.”

  “Set it down on the floor,” the gunman ordered. “Then come over here and get the key. You’re gonna unlock the door and push the pot inside.” He gestured with the twin barrels of the Greener he held. “You inside, move back, way back. If any of you boys try anything funny, we’ll not only kill you, we’ll blow this little yellow man to pieces, too.”

  “We won’t try nothin’,” Preacher promised.

  “You ain’t smelled that soup yet.” The gunman sneered.

  Loo did as the guard told him, setting the pot on the stone floor, getting the key, and unlocking the door. All the while, he grinned and bobbed his head.

  Preacher frowned slightly in thought.

  “Toss that key ring back over here,” the guard ordered.

  Loo did so.

  “Don’t open the door any wider than you have to, to push that pot inside.”

  “No trouble, no trouble,” Loo said. “Just good soup.” As he bent to push the pot inside the cell, he glanced up, and caught Preacher’s eye. “Very special soup, full of good things. Squid, octopus, and bird’s nest. Reachee down to bottom of pot to find tastiest morsels.”

  Curley rubbed his jaw and said dubiously, “I dunno about eatin’ squid and octopus and bird’s nests.”

  “Very good, you see,” Loo assured him.

  “All right,” one of the shotgunners snapped. “Now back off and slam that door, chink.”

  Loo did as ordered.

  “How are we supposed to eat soup with our hands?” Curley asked.

  Preacher said, “We can pick up the pot and pass it around. Drink the soup and then eat them tasty morsels.”

  “On bo
ttom of pot,” Loo said.

  “Yeah, we got that,” Preacher assured him.

  Loo bowed, grinned, and backed away from the cell.

  “All right, get the hell on outta here.” The guard who issued the order aimed a mock kick at Loo’s backside as the little man scurried out of the cell block. He didn’t slow down until he was out of the office.

  Chuckling among themselves, the outlaws followed him. The door between office and cell block slammed shut.

  Curley looked askance at the pot sitting on the floor just inside the door. “Are we really gonna eat that stuff?”

  “Sure we are,” Preacher said, his voice loud enough to carry to the office just in case the guards were listening. “Let me at it. I et things a heap worse in my younger days, to keep from starvin’.” He went to the pot, hunkered beside it, lifted the lid, and plunged his hand into it despite the heat of the contents.

  “Hey,” Curley objected with a frown. “I said I wasn’t sure about eatin’ the stuff, but that don’t mean—”

  Matt lifted a hand and motioned for the deputy to be quiet. A slow grin was starting to appear on his face as he realized what Preacher was up to.

  The old mountain man drew his dripping hand out of the pot. He held something, but it wasn’t a piece of squid, octopus, or bird’s nest. The object was wrapped in oilcloth tied tightly in place with twine.

  Every man in the cell could tell by the shape of the thing that it was a gun.

  Chapter 53

  Night had fallen by the time Smoke, Pearlie, and Cal neared Big Rock. Smoke’s keen senses and instincts had allowed them to dodge several more outlaw patrols as they rode toward the settlement. They reined in half a mile shy of the edge of town, stopping in the shadows under a grove of cottonwoods.

  “According to what Trask told Sally, he’s got Monte Carson and some other folks locked up in the jail,” Smoke said quietly. “I’m going to see if I can get there without being seen so I can talk to Monte. I might even be able to get him and the others out.”

  “And let me guess,” Pearlie said. “Cal and me are gonna get left behind again.”

  “Nope,” Smoke replied with a grin. “Pearlie, you try to get to Longmont’s Saloon. Louis will know what’s going on in town, and he’ll back any play we make.”

  “What about me?” Cal asked.

  “Head for the livery stable,” Smoke told him. “The outlaws probably have their horses there. Some of them, anyway. If a ruckus breaks out, you stampede those animals, Cal. That’ll put Trask’s men at a disadvantage if we have to make a run for it.”

  Cal nodded. “You can count on me, Smoke.”

  “I know that. Meet back here in a couple hours, if you can. And both of you, stay out of sight as much as possible. That bunch is liable to shoot anybody they find on the street.”

  Pearlie and Cal nodded in understanding. All three men knew what a big risk they would be running, but there was nothing else that could be done.

  They left their horses tied loosely in the trees and split up to proceed on foot toward Big Rock. With luck they would be coming back for their mounts, but if they didn’t, eventually the animals would get free and return to Sugarloaf.

  Smoke employed all the stealthy tricks he had learned from Preacher as he made his way through the night. He used every bit of cover and shadow he could find. Covering the half-mile or so of ground took him more than an hour. Twice he had to lie absolutely still, not even breathing, while outlaw sentries walked past almost close enough for him to reach out and touch them.

  He had just arrived at the back alley that led to the jail when nearby footsteps made him freeze again in a patch of shadow behind the hardware store. A man with a Winchester tucked under his arm stepped out of the narrow passage between the store and the neighboring building. He stopped and looked in both directions along the alley.

  His attitude was casual. It was obvious he hadn’t heard anything suspicious. He was just making a perfunctory check.

  Smoke stood still, breathing shallowly. About fifteen feet away, the gunman was close enough that Smoke could be on him in two bounds.

  It wouldn’t hurt to start narrowing the odds. As soon as the man turned away, Smoke decided, he would go after the hombre and put a dent in his skull. He started to slide the Colt on his hip out of its holster. . . .

  “Anything back there, Masters?” another man asked from closer to the street.

  “Nope,” replied the man Smoke was watching. “Not even a damn ol’ alley cat movin’ around back here tonight.”

  The other man chuckled as he strolled along the passage and stepped out to join Masters. “I reckon even the cats have heard they need to stay off the street or get shot.”

  Masters dug in his shirt pocket and brought out the makin’s. The other man did likewise. Smoke’s jaw tightened. From the looks of it, they were going to stand there and roll quirlies, stealing a few minutes from their scheduled rounds.

  When they had rolled the cigarettes, the man from the street scratched a lucifer to life on the wall and set fire to both gaspers. The glare from the match didn’t quite reach to where Smoke was standing with his back pressed to the wall, next to a stack of empty wooden crates.

  “How much longer you reckon we’re gonna be here in this burg?” Masters asked idly.

  “Until the doc gets what he wants, I suppose.”

  “You mean Smoke Jensen.”

  “That’s why we’re here, ain’t it?”

  “Yeah, but I’m not sure exactly what Trask wants with him. From everything I’ve heard about Jensen, he’s hell on wheels. I wouldn’t want to be within a hundred miles of the man . . . unless I was gettin’ well paid for it.” Masters shrugged. “Which we are, I guess.”

  “Why Trask wants Jensen is his business, and I don’t want anything to do with that part of it. Our job is just to deliver him.”

  These two would be mighty surprised, Smoke thought, if they knew their quarry was standing less than twenty feet away from them.

  “I don’t mind tellin’ you, that fella makes my blood run cold,” Masters mused.

  “Jensen, you mean?”

  “No. Doc Trask.” Masters lowered his voice. “You know he was responsible for what happened to Lonesome Dan.”

  “Dan volunteered,” the other man snapped. “He didn’t have to let Trask do whatever it was he did.”

  “You know, I’ve heard stories . . . Some fellas say there were more men that turned out like Dan.”

  “Shut up. Just keep your trap closed, Masters. You know we’re not supposed to be talkin’ about things like that. If the major was to get wind of it . . . well, you know how close him and Trask are.”

  “All I know is I’m ready for this job to be over and done with.”

  “No argument there. But Jensen’s bound to surrender soon as he finds out the doc’s got his wife.” The other man dropped his cigarette butt and ground it out with the toe of his boot. “Come on. Let’s get back to it.”

  They turned and walked back toward the street.

  In the darkness, Smoke smiled grimly. Those killers were counting on something that wasn’t true. Trask didn’t have Sally. She was safe in that cave up in the high country, leaving Smoke free to deal with the outlaws without having to worry about her.

  He drifted off into the shadows, setting out to do just that.

  Chapter 54

  Cal had been in the middle of plenty of ruckuses since he had met and gone to work for Smoke Jensen. Trouble just seemed to gravitate naturally to him and those around him. All of those perilous adventures had turned out all right in the end, and Cal had no doubt that this one would, too. He had that much confidence in Smoke.

  At the same time, in the back of Cal’s mind was the realization that everybody’s luck ran out eventually. Maybe fate would finally catch up to Smoke and his friends.

  With a little shake of his head, Cal put that thought out of his mind. Just considering the possibility was being disloyal to Smoke,
he told himself sternly. Anyway, in a dangerous situation, it was best to concentrate on one thing at a time.

  He didn’t want to slip up and get caught and focused his attention on staying out of the outlaws’ sights as he carefully made his way toward the livery stable.

  He reached the big, cavernous barn and tugged on the back door. It was barred from the inside, which was no surprise at that time of night. The front door might be open, but Cal wasn’t going to risk stepping out into the street where he would be in plain view if one of the invaders looked his way.

  He moved silently along the side of the building until he reached a small window that opened into the tack room where the night hostler slept. Most of the time, his friend Wendell Barnes held down that chore.

  Despite the chill, the window was open a couple inches to let in fresh air. Cal raised himself on his toes and hooked his fingers over the sill. He put his mouth close to the gap and called in a whisper, “Wendell! Wendell, are you in there?”

  He had to repeat that several times before he heard somebody stirring inside. A voice thick with interrupted sleep muttered, “What the hell?”

  “Wendell, don’t strike a light!” Cal said. “It’s Calvin Woods. I’m here at the window.”

  A dark shape moved on the other side of the glass. Whoever it was shoved the pane up, then a tousled, sandy-haired head thrust out and Wendell said in obvious surprise, “Cal? What in blazes are you doin’ here? I thought you were out at the Sugarloaf.” The young hostler’s voice caught a little as he added, “I worried those damn gun-wolves might’ve killed you.”

  “It wasn’t for lack of tryin’ that they didn’t,” Cal said. “Move back. I’m gonna climb in there.”

  “Let me give you a hand.”

  With Wendell’s help, Cal clambered through the window. Relief went through him when his boots hit the floor of the tack room. At least while he was inside, none of the outlaws would come along and shoot him on sight.