Hard Ride to Hell (9780786031191)

by Johnstone, William W.

  “Not without the little boy,” Preacher said.

  She stared at him for a second before saying, “You want to take Little Hawk with you?”

  “I got to,” Preacher said. “That’s what I come all this way for, to take that young’un back to his family. His ma may be gone, but he’s got a pa and a grandpa and plenty o’ aunts and uncles and cousins who love him and want him back safe and sound.”

  “You can’t. It’s too dangerous. If the guards see you trying to escape, they’ll shoot. And if you have Little Hawk with you . . .” She shook her head. “I can’t give him up.”

  Preacher could tell by the light in her eyes that she might be a little loco, too. Not kill-crazy like the Colonel, but she was acting almost like that baby was hers. He wondered if something happened to the child she had mentioned earlier. That seemed pretty likely to him.

  “I don’t want to argue with you,” he said, “but I ain’t leavin’ without the kid.” He took hold of her arm, hoping that she wouldn’t scream, and turned her toward the door. “Let’s go—”

  What he heard then rendered the argument pointless. Heavy footsteps were coming up the stairs.

  Somebody was on their way to kill him, Preacher knew.

  Chapter 41

  After his conversation with Smoke in the alley next to the Emerald Palace, Matt returned to the saloon and found Randall still at the billiard table.

  “Your horse was all right?” the big gunman asked without looking up from the shot he was lining up.

  “Yeah, just fine,” Matt replied. “He gets a little skittish sometimes, especially in strange places.”

  Randall made the shot and carelessly tossed the cue stick onto the table.

  “Let’s go take care of that job,” he said.

  “Are you sure it’s late enough?” Matt asked.

  Randall gave him a chilly stare and said, “Are you questioning my orders, Stevens?”

  “Not at all,” Matt said. “I just know the Colonel wanted us to wait until his housekeeper was asleep.” He shrugged. “For all I know, she might be. Maybe she goes to bed with the chickens.”

  Randall’s eyes narrowed in thought. After a moment, he said, “I don’t guess it would hurt anything to wait a while longer, just to be sure. I’m tired of shooting pool, though.”

  “Maybe you should get you one of those painted gals and take her upstairs?” Matt said. He closed one eye in a suggestive wink. “When I’ve got an unpleasant chore coming up, sometimes that helps take the edge off it.”

  “Who said this chore was unpleasant?” Randall asked. “Anyway, I’m not in the mood for a girl, but I reckon I could use a drink.”

  “Sounds good,” Matt said with a smile. “I’m buying.”

  “I won’t argue with that.”

  They walked over to the bar. Matt signaled the bartender to bring them two beers. He intended to nurse his mug along as much as he could. The more time Smoke had to reach Standing Rock’s camp and set up a diversion with the Assiniboine warriors, the better.

  “You’ve been with the Colonel a long time, haven’t you?” he asked. If he could get Randall talking, it might help.

  “Since the war,” Randall replied. “Antietam was the first action we saw together. That was a long, bloody day.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  Randall grunted and said, “Yeah, that was before your time, too. You didn’t miss much except a lot of killing and dying. It really bothered the Colonel. He was a good man. A kind man.”

  That hardly seemed possible to Matt, but he said, “War can change a man, I’ve been told.”

  “Yeah. Not me, though.” Randall’s smile was like ice. “Killing never bothered me all that much. As for dying . . . well, I haven’t done that yet.”

  “How did the Colonel get the money to set up this deal with the railroad?” Matt asked. “He must have been successful in some other business.”

  “Not really. He comes from money. His family’s rich. Got more money than they’ll ever need.”

  Matt frowned.

  “Then why go to so much trouble to take over this basin and bring in the railroad?”

  “Well . . .” Randall lifted his mug and swallowed the rest of his beer. He wiped the back of his other hand across his mouth and smiled humorlessly. “You can never have enough money, can you?”

  “Maybe some men can’t,” Matt answered honestly without thinking about it.

  “I wouldn’t let the Colonel hear you talking like that. More money means more power, and those are the only two things that mean anything to him.”

  Matt was even more disgusted now. Colonel Ritchie had unleashed a killing spree out of sheer greed. As far as Matt was concerned, the man was an animal.

  No, worse than an animal, Matt corrected himself. With rare exceptions, animals killed only for food or to protect themselves or their young. That was a matter of sheer survival. Greed had no place in nature . . . except in man.

  Randall shoved the empty mug across the bar and said, “Let’s go. We’ve waited long enough to get this done. You’re going to give me a hand, Stevens. That’ll be a good way to break you in, now that you’re working for the Colonel.”

  “Lead the way,” Matt said, hoping his voice didn’t sound as hollow as he felt inside.

  Matt still thought taking the Colonel hostage might be a good idea, but when they got to the big house, Randall went straight to the staircase and started up.

  “Shouldn’t we tell the Colonel we’re here?” Matt suggested.

  Randall paused on the second step and looked back at him.

  “The Colonel gave an order, and he expects it to be carried out. There’s no need to tell him that we’re going to do what he told us to do in the first place. Now come on and stop stalling.” Randall got a curious look on his face. “Unless you don’t want to work for the Colonel after all if it means doing things like this.”

  “I never said that,” Matt replied without hesitation. He bounded past Randall on the stairs. “Come on, let’s go take care of the old coot.”

  “That’s more like it,” Randall said behind him.

  Matt grimaced since Randall couldn’t see him. His brain worked quickly. If there was no other guard in the attic room where Preacher was being held, he ought to be able to get the drop on Randall. He could free Preacher, and then the old mountain man could hold a gun on Randall while Matt tied and gagged him. Then they would have to get Little Hawk and find a way out.

  Their chances that way would be slim, but certainly better than nothing.

  They reached the third floor with Matt in the lead. He hung back so that Randall could go first up the narrow staircase leading to the attic. But Randall nodded toward the door and said, “Go ahead.”

  Matt couldn’t think of a way to refuse without arousing the hired killer’s suspicions, so he opened the door. Light from the candle in Preacher’s prison reached into the stairwell since there was no door at the top, just an opening for one, but it left the stairs shadowy.

  Matt took a deep breath and started up. He was halfway there when he realized that he smelled something odd. It was a metallic odor, like sheared copper, and it set his teeth on edge and caused his nerves to draw taut. He had smelled that odor before, and he didn’t like it.

  It was the smell of freshly spilled blood, and a lot of it.

  Matt’s step faltered for a second when he spotted the edge of the dark red puddle dripping over the top step.

  “Something wrong?” Randall asked, close behind him.

  “Nope,” Matt said. “Not a thing.”

  “Keep going, then. I want to get this over with.”

  Cold horror pawed at Matt’s vitals like a dead but somehow animated hand. Nobody who lost that much blood could still be alive, and since the room just above him was where he had last seen Preacher . . .

  Matt’s head rose above the level of the top step so he could see into the room. A body was propped up on the cot, but it didn’t belong to t
he mountain man. It was one of the guards, and the front of his shirt was sodden with blood that had spilled from the slash in his throat.

  That was Preacher’s work. Matt was sure of it. But where was Preacher?

  He had to be waiting up there, hiding around the corner by the opening so that he couldn’t be seen by anyone on the stairs. Realizing that, Matt knew he had to get Randall up there in a hurry, before the gunman had time to think. He made himself sound startled—that didn’t take much of an effort—as he exclaimed, “Randall, there’s something wrong! Come on!”

  He drew his gun and charged the rest of the way up the stairs, taking a big step over the pool of blood so he wouldn’t slip in it. Randall was right behind him, booted feet thudding heavily on the stairs. Randall said, “Careful, Stevens, you damned fool! It could be a trap!”

  From the corner of his eye Matt saw Preacher in the corner with the housekeeper huddled behind him. The old mountain man had the guard’s gun in his hand. As Randall reached the top of the stairs, Preacher thrust the revolver at him and said, “Don’t stop now, mister. Step right on in here and say howdy to a man whose hands ain’t tied no more!”

  Remembering all the times Randall’s fists had smashed brutally into him, Preacher wanted to pull the trigger and blow the varmint’s brains out. He wanted it so bad he could feel his muscles twitching a little with the desire for vengeance.

  Instead, he held his fire. A shot would draw the other guards in and around the house, and that could ruin everything.

  Matt had whirled around, and he covered Randall, too. The gunman’s eyes darted back and forth between the two of them, and he growled, “You’re a damned traitor, Stevens. I should’ve known better than to trust you.”

  “The name’s Jensen,” Matt said. “Matt Jensen.”

  “And they call me Preacher,” the old mountain man said. “You been tryin’ to get my name outta me all week, Randall, and now you finally got it.”

  Matt said, “Preacher, I hope all that blood isn’t yours.”

  “None of it is,” Preacher told him. “I’m near fit as a fiddle now that I got a gun in my hand and this here polecat in my sights. Come on in, Randall. Don’t you know it’s impolite not to accept an invitation?”

  Randall was poised there at the edge of the stairs. His right hand rested on the butt of his gun, but he hadn’t tried to draw the revolver with two Colts pointing at him.

  Now a smile spread slowly across his face.

  “Jensen,” he said. “I’ve heard the name. Seems like there’s another one of you. Is he around, too?”

  “Never mind about that,” Matt told him. “Get on in here.”

  “So you can tie me up and shove a gag in my mouth? I don’t think so.”

  With no more warning than that, Randall threw himself backwards down the stairs, whipping out his gun as he fell and blazing away at Matt as fast as he could pull the trigger.

  Smoke reined the ’Palouse to a halt in the trees to the side of the mansion. Standing Rock and the rest of the Assiniboine warriors ought to be in position by now. When they were ready, they would charge down Hammerhead’s main street, firing their rifles into the air and howling war cries and generally making it sound like the Battle of the Little Big Horn all over again. One fast charge, straight toward the Colonel’s house, to draw out the guards and make them rush to defend against what would look and sound like an all-out frontal attack.

  But when they reached the last cross street, the rescue party would split up and gallop along it in both directions, away from Main Street, before circling to close in on the mansion and the Colonel’s hired killers in a classic pincer movement. Even if they were outnumbered, that flanking maneuver ought to give the Assiniboine at least a momentary advantage.

  Smoke had made it clear to Standing Rock that they weren’t to gun down any of the townspeople on their charge through the settlement. Standing Rock had agreed, reluctantly, and made sure that his men understood. Their battle was with Colonel Ritchie’s hired killers, not with the innocent settlers who were unknowing pawns in the Colonel’s grand scheme.

  Smoke swung down from the saddle and left the ’Palouse’s reins dangling. As soon as the shooting started and the Colonel’s men rushed out, he was going to perform a little flanking move of his own, racing to the house behind them and getting inside to find Preacher and possibly Matt. If Randall had already returned to the mansion to carry out Preacher’s execution, Matt would be with him to put a stop to those plans.

  That was what Smoke hoped, anyway.

  He stiffened as he heard shots ring out suddenly, but they didn’t come from the far end of town like they were supposed to. Instead, they were slightly muffled, and Smoke could tell they came from inside the house. The guards on the verandah and the ones scattered around the grounds heard the gunfire, too, and jerked around toward the mansion, ready to charge inside and find out what was going on.

  At that moment, more shots erupted, these coming from the other end of Main Street. Smoke heard the yips and cries and shouts that followed them instantly. The Assiniboine “attack” on the settlement was underway.

  Some of the men started toward town, just as Smoke hoped they would. But others hung back, and one of them yelled, “Don’t let those crazy redskins reach the house!

  With that, he and several of his companions ran into the mansion.

  Well, thought Smoke, the odds had just gotten a little longer. But that had never stopped him before, and with the lives of Preacher and Matt at stake, not to mention Little Hawk, it wasn’t going to stop him now.

  Smoke broke into a run toward the Colonel’s house.

  Chapter 42

  Matt’s Colt roared as he crouched and returned Randall’s fire. Bullets from Randall’s gun whined over his head as he heard the big gunman crashing and tumbling down the narrow staircase. Randall risked a broken neck by recklessly throwing himself down the stairs that way, but he must have preferred that to letting himself be taken prisoner.

  Matt couldn’t see Randall anymore. The man must have rolled all the way to the landing. Preacher started to rush forward into the opening, but Matt motioned him back.

  Another slug snapped through the air and thudded into the roof. Obviously, Randall hadn’t broken his neck. And he had them trapped up here, Matt realized. If they tried to make it down those stairs, they would be easy targets.

  Randall’s gun fell silent, and as it did, Matt heard the faint crackling of shots coming from somewhere outside. He glanced over at Preacher and saw the old mountain man frowning in confusion at the sound.

  “That’s Standing Rock and the other warriors, more than likely,” Matt explained. “Smoke was going to get them to stage a diversion so we could get out of the mansion. It would have worked if Randall hadn’t pinned us down up here.”

  “What we need is a diversion of our own, I reckon,” Preacher said. “Grab that fella on the bunk.”

  Matt looked at the bloody corpse, not sure what Preacher intended for him to do.

  “Heave him down the stairs,” Preacher went on. “I’ll be right behind him.”

  “No, I will be,” Matt said. “I can move faster than you, stove up like you are.”

  “Stove up! Maybe I ain’t as young as I used to be, but I’m still faster than you, you big ol’ muscle-bound galoot!”

  Matt ignored Preacher’s outburst and said, “Throw some lead down the stairs to cover me.”

  He bent and took hold of the dead man, turning the body so that he could slide his arms under the guard’s arms and lock them around the corpse’s sticky, blood-soaked chest. It was a grisly task and made a wave of revulsion go through him, but with his great strength Matt was able to lift the dead man and hold the body in front of him like a grotesque shield.

  Preacher stuck the guard’s gun around the corner and triggered three swift shots down the stairs. The racket in those narrow confines was deafening. Hoping that Preacher’s shots had made Randall duck back momentarily from the
bottom of the stairs, Matt lunged down them.

  He heard a gun roar twice and felt the shock of bullets striking the body he held in front of him. Halfway down the stairs, the guard’s dead weight threatened to make him lose his balance, so Matt gave the corpse a shove and sent it plummeting the rest of the way. He caught himself by bracing a shoulder against the wall and palmed out his revolver. Flame licked from the muzzle as he triggered.

  The echoes made it hard to hear, but Matt thought he detected running footsteps from the third floor hall. He bounded down the rest of the stairs and dropped into a roll that carried him through the door at the bottom.

  As he came to a stop and raised his gun, he caught a glimpse of Randall ducking away from the main staircase’s third-floor landing. The gunman snapped a shot that tore up the flower-patterened wallpaper a couple of feet from Matt’s head. Matt triggered again, but knew he had missed as Randall continued to flee downstairs.

  “Come on!” Matt called to Preacher and Mrs. Dayton as he scrambled to his feet. Now that they weren’t trapped in the little attic room anymore, they had a chance to fight their way clear of the mansion.

  That chance improved with every minute that passed, since Matt knew that Smoke was on his way by now.

  While the diversion staged by the Assiniboine hadn’t been completely successful, it had partially served its purpose by drawing away some of the guards from the front of the mansion. And since the other gunmen had rushed inside to see what the shooting was about in there, the front door was unguarded at the moment. That was the easiest way in, so Smoke took it.

  When he rushed into the foyer, a couple of the guards were halfway up a broad, curving staircase. They must have heard him come in, because they stopped and whirled around. Recognizing him as an intruder, one of the men yelled, “Get that son of a bitch!” Both guards jerked up their guns.

  They never had a chance. Smoke drilled both of them, each with a single shot. One man fell backwards on the stairs with blood welling from the hole in his chest. The other doubled over from the slug in his guts and fell against the fancy banister running along the edge of the staircase. He tumbled over it and crashed to the parquet floor of the entrance hall.