Hard Ride to Hell (9780786031191)

by Johnstone, William W.

  “I should think so,” he said. “After all I’ve done for everyone in this town, they should all be eager to assist me.”

  And too frightened not to, if they knew what was good for them, he added to himself. It never hurt to have people afraid of you, as well as in your debt.

  “Is there anything else you need, Colonel Ritchie?” Mrs. Dayton asked softly.

  He breathed deeply.

  “Yes, there is . . . Irene. I thought perhaps you would . . . enjoy some company for a time.”

  “I always enjoy your company, Hudson. You know that.”

  Moments such as these were the only times they used each other’s first names. And in the morning, while what happened here tonight might not be forgotten, it would be ignored. Completely, by both of them. That was the way it had to be, and they both knew it.

  He moved to take her into his arms, but as he did, the baby began to stir and fret. Damn the luck! the Colonel thought. The child had appeared to be sound asleep mere moments earlier. As if it sensed that it would be inconveniencing him, it was waking up now.

  Him, the Colonel reminded himself. Him, not it.

  “I’ll settle him down,” Mrs. Dayton said. She bent to lift the baby from the makeshift crib. “It’ll only take a few minutes.”

  Little Hawk’s cries weren’t the only interruption, however.

  At that moment someone started banging on the front door downstairs, and the sound was full of urgency.

  Preacher had told Standing Rock that his Ghost Killer days were far behind him. In truth, though, he could still almost match the stealth with which he had crept into Blackfoot villages and slit the throats of his enemies.

  He didn’t have throat-slitting in mind tonight, but he would do it if he had to. It sure as hell wouldn’t break his heart if he had to kill the Colonel in order to get Little Hawk to safety. The law might not be too pleased about that, but it had been a long, long time since Preacher had worried much about what the law liked or didn’t like. He did what he knew was right and the devil with everything else.

  If there were other guards keeping an eye on the house and the area around it, they never saw him. He reached the back of the mansion and stole toward the nearest window. The house was relatively new, so the window went up without sticking and making any racket. The room beyond was dark, so he threw a leg over and climbed in.

  Once he was inside, he stood absolutely still again and listened intently. Somebody was moving around upstairs. One set of fairly heavy footsteps, Preacher judged. The Colonel? That was likely, since the only other person in the mansion was supposed to be the housekeeper, Mrs. Dayton, and he couldn’t imagine a lady clomping around like that.

  Once his senses had assured him that he was alone in the room and that no one seemed to be nearby, Preacher moved around enough to determine that he was in a kitchen. In most houses people either had a separate cook shack or prepared their meals in the same room where they spent most of their time, but it was becoming the fashion, especially in fancy places like this one, to have an actual kitchen inside the house. It seemed like foolishness to Preacher, but he supposed it was none of his business how people built their houses.

  There was usually a set of rear stairs in a mansion like this, too, that would be used mostly by the servants. Once his eyes had adjusted to the even deeper darkness inside the house, he hunted around until he found the narrow staircase and started up to the second floor. He stayed close to the wall and tested each step before he put his full weight down on it, to make sure that none of them creaked underneath him.

  He reached the second floor landing and a short hallway that led to what appeared to be a main corridor. It was dimly lit, and Preacher figured the glow came from the open door of the room where he had seen the lighted window. He was a little turned around, but he thought that agreed with the layout of the house. As he moved closer to the main hall, he heard the soft murmur of voices.

  A man and woman were talking, he thought as he paused and pressed himself to the wall just short of the corner. It had to be the Colonel and Mrs. Dayton. He couldn’t make out the words, but he stiffened as he recognized what he heard next.

  The fretful wail of a baby crying.

  Little Hawk! Preacher was sure of it. One of the captives he had come all this way to rescue was only a few feet away from him. His fingers closed around the butt of his right-hand revolver. He was about to draw the gun, move around the corner, step into that room, and throw down on the Colonel.

  That was when somebody began slamming a fist against the front door downstairs.

  Preacher heard those heavy footsteps coming toward him and drew back deeper into the shadows. A bulky, bald-headed man in a dressing gown moved past him. That was Colonel Hudson Ritchie, Preacher thought, the man who had ordered death and destruction delivered to the Assiniboine village. Preacher had to make a physical effort not to step out behind him and brain the son of a bitch.

  Little Hawk’s safety was his first concern, though, and this was his chance to get the baby and find out from the housekeeper where Wildflower was. If she was like every other housekeeper Preacher had ever seen, she knew all about her employer’s business.

  Besides, he didn’t know who was downstairs, but from the sound of the knocking on the door, the varmint was getting pretty impatient.

  Chapter 32

  “What the devil do you want?” the Colonel demanded angrily as he jerked the door open.

  Randall was glad to see that the Colonel had at least had the sense to pick up a gun before he opened the door. He had a long-barreled, silver-plated Remington in his hand. Randall knew that the Colonel was quite a good shot with the revolver, too.

  “I’ve got news, Colonel,” Randall said.

  “It had better be important.”

  The Colonel sounded really annoyed. Randall wondered briefly if he’d been engaged upstairs with Mrs. Dayton. Randall knew good and well the Colonel bedded that housekeeper of his on a regular basis. The Colonel’s personal life didn’t matter one way or the other to Randall, except when it threatened to have an effect on the way he did his own job.

  “I was in the Emerald Palace Saloon a little while ago and saw an old man I recognized. He was in the Assiniboine village the night we carried out our operation.”

  “An old man?” the Colonel repeated. “You came up here and disturbed me because you saw an old man?”

  Randall swallowed the exasperation he felt because the Colonel didn’t seem to grasp what he was saying. He went on, “The important thing is that he was with the Indians. He may have tracked us here and brought a war party with him.”

  “Did you see any Indians in town tonight, Lieutenant?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Just an old man. Are you sure it was the same old man?”

  Randall’s jaw tightened. The Colonel was making fun of him. He didn’t like that, but he would put up with it, of course, as he always had.

  “I’m sure,” he said. “I think we need to increase the guards. Those savages could try to get into the house.”

  The Colonel waved the hand that wasn’t holding the revolver.

  “Fine, go ahead. I trust your judgment in matters like this, Randall, you know that. Now, is that everything?”

  Randall said, “I think we should check on the baby.”

  “The child is fine. I saw it just a few minutes ago.”

  “No offense, sir, but I’d feel better about that if I saw him for myself.”

  The Colonel’s eyes narrowed angrily.

  “Your attitude is bordering on insubordination, Lieutenant, you know that.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I just want to be sure.”

  With an irritated sigh, the Colonel said, “Very well, then. Come on.”

  Randall stepped into the house, and the two men started toward the wide, curving staircase that led to the second floor.

  Preacher waited until the Colonel reached the bottom of the stairs and then darted around the
corner into the main hall. The door of one of the rooms stood open, just as he expected, spilling light into the corridor. The sound of Little Hawk’s crying still came from inside that room

  Quickly and silently, Preacher cat-footed toward the door. He was nearly there when a figure suddenly moved into the opening. It was a blond, middle-aged woman who had to be Mrs. Dayton, the housekeeper, and she had Little Hawk cradled in her arms, holding him against her shoulder as she tried to quiet his crying.

  Her eyes opened wide as she saw the tall, buckskin-clad man moving swiftly toward her. Fear and shock were on her face. She opened her mouth to shout to the Colonel.

  Preacher’s left hand shot out and clamped around her jaw, silencing her. At the same time he slid his right arm around her and jerked her toward him, trapping her against his body with Little Hawk between them. She tried to twist away from him, but she was no match for his strength.

  He put his face close to hers and whispered, “Take it easy, ma’am. I ain’t lookin’ to hurt you or the child. Fact is, I’m here to save the poor little varmint from whatever the Colonel’s got planned for him. I’m good friends with his ma and pa and grandpa.”

  It was stretching the truth to claim that he and Standing Rock were friends. At the moment, that didn’t matter, and anyway, Preacher and Two Bears had indeed been good friends for decades.

  “Now, I know you work for Colonel Ritchie,” Preacher went on, “but I want you to give Little Hawk to me and not raise a ruckus while I slip back out of here. Before I go, though, you need to tell me where I can find the little fella’s ma. Her name is Wildflower, and I know that wherever she is, she’s sure missin’ her son.”

  Preacher didn’t like the look that came into the woman’s eyes when he said that. Mrs. Dayton stopped fighting. Even though his big hand still covered the lower half of her face, he could see the sorrow that crept into her expression.

  That recognition shook Preacher. He leaned even closer and whispered, “Did somethin’ happen to Wildflower?” A part of him didn’t want to hear the answer, but he had to know the truth.

  Mrs. Dayton swallowed and then nodded.

  “If I take my hand away, will you promise not to scream?”

  Again, she nodded. Preacher didn’t know if he could trust her not to yell, but he didn’t think she was lying about something happening to Wildflower. The emotion in her eyes was too genuine for that.

  He lifted his hand slightly, ready to grab her again if he needed to. She licked her lips and said quietly, “The child’s mother . . . the poor woman . . . she was killed. She tried to escape, and one of the men bringing her here . . . shot her.”

  The words were like a knife in Preacher’s guts. His first thoughts were for Two Bears, who would have to find out eventually that his youngest child was dead. Preacher reckoned there was no greater pain possible than that.

  But having Little Hawk returned safely to his people might mitigate that loss. Not much, but anything that eased the grief of Wildflower’s death would be welcome.

  Then there was Standing Rock. When he found out that his wife had been killed, the warrior might well go insane with anger and loss. Preacher wouldn’t blame him a bit for feeling that way, either. But somehow, Standing Rock would have to keep his wits about him and not lose control while they tried to get Little Hawk away from here.

  “I ain’t gonna ask you what-all the Colonel was plannin’,” he told the housekeeper. “I don’t care right now. I just want the boy. Will you let me take him and give me your word you won’t raise the alarm?”

  While he was talking, he had been aware of a faint rumble of men’s voices downstairs. Now those voices were coming closer, and he thought he heard footsteps at the bottom of the stairs. He had to move fast, even if it meant taking Little Hawk from the woman and letting her yell her fool head off while they got away.

  “I’ll help you,” she whispered with a note of urgency coming into her voice. “Come this way!”

  She didn’t let go of the baby, but she stepped away from the door and beckoned for Preacher to follow her in the opposite direction from the short hallway that led to the rear stairs. When he hesitated, she added, “There’s another set of stairs. You can’t go back the way you came!”

  She was probably right about that. Preacher started to follow her. She took a quick step aside, and he realized too late that she was double-crossing him. She darted past him, still clutching Little Hawk, and screamed, “Colonel! Colonel, help!”

  Preacher grated a curse and reached for her, snagging the collar of her dressing gown. She cried out as he jerked her toward him.

  At the same time, Colonel Ritchie appeared at the top of the stairs, shouting angrily. The big gunman called Randall was right behind him. Ritchie had a gun in his hand. He jerked it up and fired, flame stabbing from the revolver’s muzzle.

  The loco son of a bitch! Preacher thought. Little Hawk and the woman were in the line of fire, but the Colonel obviously didn’t care about that. He saw an intruder in his house, and the killing rage that filled him was the only thing that mattered.

  The Colonel’s first shot missed, whistling past Preacher’s ear. The man was already about to fire again, though. Preacher used his left hand to give Mrs. Dayton a hard shove that sent her and Little Hawk tumbling through the doorway into her room, out of the path of any more slugs.

  At the same time, the old mountain man’s right hand palmed out the holstered Colt on that side. The gun came up fast, spitting flame.

  Preacher’s shot would have struck the Colonel in the chest, but at that instant Randall drove a shoulder into the Colonel and knocked him aside. The slug from Preacher’s gun clipped the upper part of Randall’s left arm and knocked him halfway around. He kept his feet, though, and didn’t drop the gun in his right hand. It roared deafeningly.

  Preacher felt the impact of Randall’s bullet as he triggered a second shot. It made him take a step back. He was hit somewhere in the body, and a hot weakness began to spread through him like a rampaging flood.

  Many times over the years, he had been wounded in the middle of gunfights. He knew how to stay on his feet and keep those smoke poles working even though he was hit. He drew his left-hand gun and fired at the Colonel, but Randall knocked him all the way down this time. As the Colonel sprawled on the balcony, Randall dropped to a knee beside him and coolly squeezed off another shot.

  The man was good in a fracas; Preacher had to give him that. Randall’s shot tore along Preacher’s left forearm and made him drop that gun.

  “Kill him!” the Colonel shrieked, his voice sputtering and almost incoherent with fury.

  Preacher reeled to the side, trying desperately to stay upright, but his shoulder hit the wall and caused his balance to desert him even more. His strength was going, too. The gun in his right hand slipped from his fingers.

  This was one sorry state of affairs, he thought. Shot up like this at his age. And the worst of it was that he hadn’t succeeded in getting Little Hawk away from these polecats before he got ventilated.

  He didn’t know he was falling until he hit the floor. His eyes were open, but the walls around him were spinning crazily. He heard sounds around him, but they were distorted, indecipherable. Then he recognized heavy footsteps, and a big, ugly shape loomed over him. Colonel Hudson Ritchie stood there pointing a Remington revolver at Preacher’s face, and to the mountain man the muzzle looked as big around as a cannon.

  The Colonel’s face was flushed and twisted. He was about to pull the trigger. Preacher knew that, but there was nothing he could do about it.

  Then Randall was at his side, taking hold of the Colonel’s wrist and pushing the gun aside.

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” the man said, his voice hollow and barely human in Preacher’s ears but understandable. “It wouldn’t be a good idea to kill him before we question him. We need to find out how many men he has with him and where they are.”

  “Get your hand off me, Randall,” the Colonel s
aid through clenched teeth. “I’ll forgive your impudence . . . this time.”

  Randall let go of the Colonel’s gun wrist and stepped back. His words must have gotten through, because the Colonel lowered the weapon and went on, “Take charge of the prisoner, Lieutenant.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Randall kicked Preacher’s fallen Colts well out of reach, then bent and got an arm around the mountain man. He lifted Preacher easily.

  Preacher was groggy from loss of blood but still conscious. He saw Mrs. Dayton standing in the doorway of her room, still holding Little Hawk. The boy was crying, and she was trying to comfort him. She looked up, and for a second her eyes met Preacher’s.

  He thought he saw regret there. She had acted on impulse and out of loyalty to the Colonel when she betrayed him, but now she was starting to think she might have made a mistake. He was still aware enough to realize that.

  But it was too late for regret. He was wounded, maybe dying, and had been taken prisoner. At the moment, there was nothing more he could do.

  But help was on the way, he thought as consciousness began to fade.

  Somewhere out there, maybe at this very moment, Smoke and Matt Jensen were riding toward Hammerhead.

  BOOK FIVE

  Chapter 33

  For a week now, Smoke and Matt had been pushing their horses pretty hard. The ’Palouse and Matt’s big steel dust were up to the challenge, carrying their riders in a ground-eating lope with seemingly effortless ease for long hours at a time.

  Smoke knew that the mounts were nearing the end of their stamina, though. That was why he was glad their destination might be in sight as they reined in and paused at the mouth of the pass overlooking a broad green basin.

  Matt let out a low whistle of admiration as he gazed across the landscape.

  “Smoke, this is some of the best country I’ve come across in a long time. It looks like it’s danged near as good as the Sugarloaf.”

  “Yeah, but look how it’s situated,” Smoke said as he rested his hands on the horn and leaned forward in the saddle. “There are mountains on two sides of it, east and south, and some pretty rugged-looking breaks on the west. The only good route in for freight wagons is to the north, and you’d have to go almost all the way to Canada before you circled back south into the basin. You’d run into the same problem if you were trying to drive cattle out. They’d have all the fat run off them by the time you got them to market.”