“You’ve gone loco.”
Ritlin leaned back. “I want to know why. You rode with us for five years.”
“Why what?”
Ritlin sighed. He got up and went to the sorrel and reached into his saddlebags and brought back the hammer. “See this?” He wagged it. “I could have shot you but I wanted answers.”
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”
“I knew if I went for my six-shooter you’d likely go for yours and I’d be forced to kill you.” Ritlin stood over Axel’s legs. “I’ll start with your knees. After I break them, I’ll do the ankles.”
Axel strained against the ropes, to no avail, and said, “You son of a bitch.”
“I’m not the one who killed Brule,” Ritlin said. “I’m not the one who killed One Eye.”
“I didn’t either.”
“Your mistake,” Ritlin said, “was in trying to gun me the other night. It set me to thinking, and that set me on to you.”
“You’re loco, I tell you.”
“I’ll ask one more time,” Ritlin said. “Then the hurting begins.” He smacked the hammer again his left palm. “We trusted you and you turned on us. I want to know why.”
“I didn’t kill them, I tell you,” Axel insisted.
“You shouldn’t ought to call my bluff,” Ritlin said, and raised the hammer over his head. “Say good-bye to your right knee.”
“Wait.”
Ritlin slowly lowered the hammer. “If this is a trick, you’ll regret it.”
“No trick,” Axel said. “You have the better of me. It would be stupid to hold out. I’ll tell you everything.”
Ritlin noticed that Axel’s drawl was gone, and that he spoke fine English with an accent. He moved to the log and sat. “We’ll start with where you’re from.”
“Connecticut.”
“The hell you say,” Ritlin said. “Everyone says you’re from Texas. Even Charlton Rank thought you were.”
“Who do you think started that story?”
Ritlin mulled that while he poured steaming hot coffee into his cup. “Is Axel your real handle?”
“No.”
“Damn. What is it, then?”
“Jim Mather.”
“How long have you been calling yourself Axel?”
“Since my cousin and I took to cattle rustling down in Arkansas with Dave Rudabaugh and Milt Yarbarry. The sheriff there was called Axel and I used his name to make him mad.”
Ritlin almost gave a start. Rudabaugh’s name was familiar; he was a notorious gun hand and train robber involved with the Billy the Kid fracas that made headlines across the country. “Who’s your cousin?”
“Dave Mather,” Jim Mather said. “He’s more generally known as Mysterious Dave.”
“The gent you were talking to in Kansas,” Ritlin remembered.
“After Arkansas we drifted into Texas,” Jim Mather said. “That’s when I took to speaking with a drawl and telling everyone I was a Texan.”
“You lie like there is no tomorrow,” Ritlin said.
“Every lie is to a purpose,” Jim Mather said. “I learned that from my cousin.”
Ritlin sipped and said, “I’m listening.”
Grunting, Jim Mather rose onto an elbow. “I’ve lived on the wrong side of the law for a good long while now. The less people know about me, the less chance I’ll wind up behind bars, or hung.”
“So you lie to throw them off the scent.”
“I do more than lie. I dress like a puncher when I’m no such thing. I talk like a Texan when I’m from New England. I use a different name.”
“Even with those you ride with.”
“Especially those I ride with,” Jim Mather said. “They’re liable to be caught and the law might make them talk.”
Ritlin held his tin cup in both hands and shook his head in bewilderment. “All this time, we took you at your word.”
“Anyone who would take the word of an outlaw—” Jim Mather said, and didn’t finish.
“None of this explains Brule and One Eye and why you tried to kill me.”
“I’d rather not,” Jim Mather said.
Ritlin reached down and touched the hammer on the ground by his boot. “I pick this up, I won’t stop until every bone in your body is broke.”
“It’s your fault they’re dead.”
Straightening, Ritlin sneered, “This should be good. You kill them and blame me?”
Jim Mather nodded. “You were the one who wouldn’t go slow. You were the one who acted as if we had to wipe out everyone in Thunder Valley when Rank wanted us to scare them off.”
“I figured killin’ a few would scare off the rest.”
“Or it might make them stand and fight,” Jim Mather said, “which is what they’re doing.”
“So you didn’t like how I was handlin’ things,” Ritlin said. “How was that cause to kill Brule and One Eye?”
“You were too reckless. The law was bound to take notice. And if the law got its hands on One Eye or Brule, they might strike a deal and give the rest of us up.”
“Brule would never do that.”
“Not to you. You were his pard. But he might have turned me in.”
“So? What could he tell them? What could One Eye tell them? Neither knew your real name or where you’re really from.”
“They could give a description.”
“You backstabbing prick.”
“Don’t take it personal,” Jim Mather said.
“What is it, then?”
“Self-preservation. I’ve lasted as long as I have because I always cover my tracks. That’s why my cousin and I parted company. I wanted to kill Rudabaugh and Yarbarry so they couldn’t identify us but he was against it.”
“I’d like to have seen you kill Dave Rudabaugh. They say he was the meanest son of a bitch alive.”
“I think I could outdraw him if I had to. But a bullet to the back of the head would have worked as well.”
“God, you’re a bastard.”
“A careful bastard,” Jim Mather said, “who always has a dagger in his boot and a derringer up his sleeve.”
“What?” Ritlin said. He streaked his hand to his holster and was wrapping his fingers around the ivory handles of his Colt when Mather’s hand flashed up holding a derringer. He saw the muzzle spurt smoke and felt a jolt to his forehead and then there was nothing, nothing at all.
36
Roy Sether was filled with dread. Dread for his wife and dread for Rondo James and dread for his own life. He held Martha’s arm as they moved down the hall and out the front door to the porch.
Behind them came Shotgun Anderson with his double-barreled shotgun leveled at their backs and Kid Slade with his twin Colts pointed.
One wrong move, Roy knew, and he and the woman he loved would be blasted to ribbons.
“We’ll be right behind you, so don’t try anything,” Shotgun Anderson warned.
“That goes double for you, bitch,” Kid Slade said. “With that mouth of yours.”
Roy boiled with anger. Ordinarily, he’d never let anyone talk to his wife like that.
Thunder Valley lay deceptively peaceful under the stars. The night was clear, the breeze still, the animals on the farm were quiet.
“I can’t get either of you to reconsider?” Martha said. “To murder someone is wrong.”
“Quit preachin’ to us,” Kid Slade snapped.
“I’ll go him one better, lady,” Shotgun Anderson said. “Not another damn word out of you, you hear?” He poked her in the back with his shotgun.
Roy almost turned and slugged him.
“Another couple of minutes and this will be over with,” Anderson went on. “The Reb will be dead and we’ll ride off and you and your kids will be fine.”
Roy doubted that. He doubted it very much. The pair would kill them. He had to do something but he couldn’t think of anything that wouldn’t get him instantly shot.
“Let’s go,” Kid Slade said.
Roy went down the steps and started for the barn. He walked as slowly as he dared, hoping they would attribute it to fear.
“I can’t wait to be shed of this place,” Kid Slade remarked.
“Hush,” Shotgun Anderson said.
“We should go to Denver after we get paid. They have more whores than just about anywhere.”
“I said hush, damn it. Don’t put the cart before the horse.”
The assassins fell quiet.
The barn door was open. Roy stared at the wide black hole, aghast. Rondo James was sleeping in the loft, as he usually did. The loft door itself was shut, and Rondo wouldn’t hear them approach.
Roy felt Martha’s nails dig into his arm. She was in turmoil, too. He smiled encouragement but in the dark he didn’t know if she could see.
They were within ten feet of the barn when Shotgun Anderson hissed, “That’s close enough.”
Roy stopped.
“Now holler to him. Tell him what I told you to.”
Roy glanced over his shoulder. Both Anderson and Slade had crouched so they wouldn’t be seen.
“Get to it, damn you,” Kid Slade whispered.
Clearing his throat, Roy called out, “Rondo! Rondo James, it’s me, Roy.”
There was no answer.
“Mr. James, we think we saw someone skulking about the house. You might want to come out. Did you hear me, Mr. James?”
Again there was no reply.
Roy waited, every nerve raw, Martha’s nails digging so deep, she drew blood.
“Call him again,” Shotgun Anderson whispered.
“Mr. James!” Roy yelled. “Where are you, Mr. James?”
A minute passed. Then two. Nothing happened. The silence was unbroken.
“What the hell?” Kid Slade snarled. “Where is he?”
“I don’t like it,” Shotgun Anderson said.
Suddenly the pair were on either side of Roy and Martha. Anderson pointed his shotgun at Roy’s head and Kid Slade jammed a Colt against Martha’s temple.
“Rondo James!” Shotgun Anderson bellowed. “You hear me in there? If you don’t come out right quick, these friends of yours will be blown to hell and back.”
It took every ounce of self-control Roy had not to grab the shotgun and try to wrest it from Anderson’s grasp.
“We won’t wait all damn night,” Kid Slade hollered. “Show yourself, Reb, or this lady gets a new ear hole.”
Once again, silence, save for a few clucks from the chicken coop.
“What the hell?” Kid Slade said to his partner.
“Somethin’ ain’t right. Keep them covered.” Wedging the shotgun’s stock to his shoulder, Shotgun Anderson cautiously entered the barn and was swallowed by the darkness.
“Nothin’ better happen to him,” Kid Slade said, “or I’ll drop you two where you stand.”
“It’s not too late to change your minds,” Martha said. “It’s not too late to go.”
“Lady, I’m going to enjoy killin’ you,” Kid Slade said. “You don’t know when to shut the hell up.”
Roy’s skin prickled. He thought for sure he’d hear shots. More minutes went by, and a bulk emerged from the shadows.
“He ain’t in there,” Shotgun Anderson announced.
“Where did he get to?” Kid Slade wondered. “The last we saw, he went in right before dark.”
“We’ll take them back into the house and tie them,” Shotgun Anderson proposed, “and have a look around.”
“Don’t you dare disturb my children,” Martha said.
Kid Slade shoved her. “I am sick of you. You hear me? Open your mouth again and see what happens.”
Roy hit him. Before he could stop himself, his fist was up and around and he caught Slade flush on the jaw and sent him tottering. He was about to say that Slade should keep his hands off his wife when the side of his head seemed to cave in, and the next he knew, he was on his knees and his head was throbbing with agony and Martha was holding both his hands and saying his name.
Roy blinked and looked up into the muzzles of Anderson’s shotgun.
“You two are startin’ to rile me.”
“Don’t you dare strike him again,” Martha said, throwing an arm in front of Roy’s face. “He was only protecting me.”
“Get him up,” Shotgun Anderson barked.
Roy’s legs were mush. He had to try three times to stand. Wobbling unsteadily, he let Martha steer him toward the house.
Kid Slade came up and jammed a Colt against his ribs. “That hurt, mister. But nowhere near as much as I’m fixin’ to hurt you.”
“Leave him be,” Martha said.
They climbed the steps and the Kid opened the door. Anderson stayed behind him, his shotgun inches from their heads.
“Into the parlor.”
Roy’s strength was returning. He couldn’t let them tie them or it was all over. He’d have to fight even though it would get him killed. “I’m sorry,” he said softly to Martha.
“For what?”
“Shut up,” Kid Slade snarled.
They were almost to the parlor. Roy steeled himself for what he must do.
“As soon as we tie them—” Shotgun Anderson began.
Rondo James came out of the parlor. He was around the corner in a swift stride, a Colt Navy in each hand. He thrust the pistols between Roy and Martha and simultaneously shot Shotgun Anderson and Kid Slade both in the face.
Both assassins staggered. A look of bewilderment came over Shotgun Anderson, and his legs gave out. Kid Slade’s mouth moved but didn’t utter a sound as he followed his bearish pard to the floor.
Rondo James pointed his Colts at them until they stopped convulsing. “I reckon that’s the end of them,” he said.
Roy’s right ear was ringing and the acrid odor of gunpowder was strong in his nose. He pulled Martha to him and they embraced.
“Thank God,” she breathed.
Roy caressed her hair and gave silent thanks, and looked at the man in gray. “Thank you,” he said.
“Thank yourself,” Rondo replied, slowly lowering his Colts. “It was all that ‘Mr. James’ business you were yellin’. You never call me Mr. James so I knew somethin’ wasn’t right.”
“You saved us,” Martha said.
“I cat-footed out the back of the barn and ran like Hades around to the house,” Rondo related. “I came in the back door and peeked out the front window and saw all of you comin’ this way, and I decided to spring a little surprise.”
Roy stared at the bodies and the spreading pools of blood.
“That was slick as could be.”
“I took an awful chance,” Rondo James said. “They might have got off a shot.”
Martha went to him, and to Roy’s amazement, she kissed the Southerner on the cheek. “We are forever in your debt.”
Rondo smiled and shrugged. “What are friends for?” he said.
A commotion upstairs preceded a flurry of footsteps. Andy, Sally and Matt were halfway down the stairs when Roy thought to turn and raise a hand. “Stop where you are!”
Out of habit they obeyed. They were confused, and Sally and Matt were scared.
“What’s going on, Pa?” Andy said, and spied the still forms. “Who are they?”
“Go back upstairs,” Roy directed. “You shouldn’t see this.”
“No, you shouldn’t,” Martha said, and bustled over. “I’ll tuck you in.” She winked at Roy and went up, herding them before her.
“That’s some lady you have there,” Rondo James said.
“Don’t I know it.”
“I’m awful sorry about these two,” Rondo said, with a nod at the assassins. “I didn’t mean to bring this down on your heads.”
“How were you to know that rancher hired them?” Roy said. “Come to think of it, it’s Marshal Gibson we should thank, for warning us.”
“I owe him,” Rondo said. He began to replace the spent cartridges.
Roy’s head was hurting worse. He had a goos
e egg above his ear.
“I’ll be headin’ into town tomorrow to tell the lawdog,” Rondo James said. “And then I’ll be on my way.”
“What?”
“General Lee is healed.”
“Stick around another day. For the kids. They’ll be sorry you’re leaving, and so am I.”
“I reckon one more day can’t hurt.” Rondo twirled the right Colt into its holster and did the same with the left, and patted them. Stepping to the bodies, he went through their pockets. “What have we here?”
Roy glanced up the stairs. Martha had the kids in their rooms and he could hear her saying goodnight to Matt. When he turned back to Rondo James, the Southerner was holding out two leather pokes. “What’s this?”
“As near as I can tell, their life savin’s.” Rondo tossed one to him and Roy caught it. “Must be a couple of thousand in each.”
“Martha wouldn’t let me take this,” Roy said. “It’s blood money.”
“She doesn’t have to know.” Rondo slid the other poke into his slicker.
Roy hefted it and coins jingled. He opened the drawstring and saw a thick wad of folded bills. Pulling the string tight, he shoved the poke into his pants pocket. “God forgive me,” he said.
“It’s a good thing I’m leavin’,” Rondo James said, and grinned. “I’m a bad influence.”
“No,” Roy said sincerely. “You’re not.”
37
“Oh my,” Marshal Tyrell Gibson said.
The table had been set with china plates and silverware and glasses that sparkled. Folded napkins were by the plates. A heaping platter of venison was at the center, along with bowls of hominy and collard greens.
Tyrell’s mouth watered. “You did all this for me, Miss Cyrus?”
“I told you to call me Bessie,” she said as she came out of the kitchen with two candles in silver holders. She placed them on the table, one toward his end and the other toward her end, and set to lighting them.
“Candles, ma’am?” Tyrell said in some amazement.
“Don’t call me that, neither.” Bessie smiled sweetly and moved to her chair and stood there.
It took a few seconds for Tyrell to realize what he was supposed to do. Scooting around, he pulled her chair out and she eased into it and bestowed another smile.
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