‘No, I guess not. Mr. Willit has had bad luck with his wives.’
‘Charlie, you have to let us go,’ K. John said. ‘The girl is young and naive. She doesn’t deserve to die for that.’
‘No.’ Charlie hesitated and he lowered his shotgun. ‘But it’s a fool’s errand, you know. Hammond, Bean and Dungee will be in the wedding party. They’ve already proven that they can handle you.’
‘I appreciate your confidence in me,’ K. John said, without humor.
‘K. John can take care of them all,’ Flower said, brashly. Just give us a chance to stop this marriage—if it can be called that instead of what it really is.’
‘Clyde Willit is my boss,’ Charlie ruminated, ‘has been for a long time. But I haven’t held with a lot of what goes on around the Double O. That’s the reason I was willing to help Barbara the other day.
‘All right!’ Charlie finally decided. ‘Go on, then! What do I care if you get yourself killed?’ He turned his back on them. ‘I’ve got work to do.’
They watched him stump away. Then Flower grabbed K. John’s arm.
‘If they’ve gone, we’ll need horses.’
‘Why don’t you just stay here?’ K. John asked, but she ignored him. ‘I’ve got the dun I borrowed from Barbara, that’s all,’ he said.
‘We’ll just have to rent another one, then. As you know I am quite careful with money, K. John. I still have some of the advance money Emerson Masters paid us.’
They started off through the heat toward the stable where K. John had left the dun horse. ‘Where will they be going, Flower? Do you know?’
‘To Judge Baxter’s house. He’s the one who officiates at all of Willit’s weddings. No one knows if he’s really even a judge or just calls himself one. We’ve never had an election for that office. No matter, the girls get to see the trappings of a legal marriage, and they’re satisfied.’
Crossing the main street they glimpsed a buggy being driven out toward the south. Behind it were three riders. The witnesses. The Double O gang of thugs. Flower tugged urgently at K. John’s arm. ‘We’ve got to hurry.’
Entering the stable once again, K. John saw something he had not been alert enough to notice earlier. The red roan belonging to Emerson Masters and the little paint pony that was Justine’s were both still in their stalls, looking sleek and well-rested. K. John had not been interested in looking at horses when he returned from Barbara’s ranch. Now, as they searched for a horse for Flower to ride to Judge Baxter’s, his eyes immediately fastened on these.
K. John saw the dun, still a little trail-weary, and suggested, ‘How about we take those two again?’
The stable hand showed no surprise at seeing these two together again as he strolled toward them. Flower smiled at the man. K. John saw her tuck her little purse back inside her shirt.
‘Come to get your horses?’ the stable hand asked.
‘Yes,’ Flower answered before K. John could speak. ‘Charge whatever we owe you to the Oxhead account. Mr. Masters will be back in the morning to settle up.’
If Flower knew that, she had better sources of information than K. John did. He doubted that she knew a thing about Masters’ schedule. She knew more than the stable hand did, however, and he just smiled at her and showed them where he had kept their tack, offering to saddle Flower’s horse for her.
‘There’s my father’s bay horse,’ Flower said as they outfitted their ponies. On a whim, K. John responded:
‘We’ll swing by the hotel and pick him up.’
‘He’s drunk!’
‘This will sober him up quick enough. He deserves it, Flower. He’s feeling old, defeated and useless. Let’s take him along.’ Besides, they could use another gun. Flower nodded, doubtfully. It seemed to K. John that she was anxious over meeting her father again; unsure of how to put old regrets behind her.
They rode toward the hotel leading Warren Tremaine’s saddled horse. K. John was of two minds about this plan of his. For one thing, he didn’t want to lose Willit and Justine as they drove to their wedding. But what was there to do, really, if both were wishing to get married? Break it up at gunpoint? Maybe. But K. John felt it was even more important to get Flower and her father back together, on amicable terms. Tremaine must have worked his head off on the farm, day and night for the past three months, only to arrive and have Willit disappoint him.
Lord knows, those three months had to have been equally difficult for Flower. But they had a chance now for happiness and K. John meant to do the best he could to bring them together, friendly-like. Maybe, he considered, it was because he had never known his own father.
Flower was frowning, and she continued to frown as K. John swung down from his horse and tied the roan and the bay to the hotel hitch-rail. He looked back at Flower, who had not moved, hoping to see some sign of the anger on her face receding. There was none. She sat stonily in her saddle, looking straight ahead.
‘Coming in with me?’ K. John asked.
‘I don’t even want to see him,’ she said, tightly.
‘You’re going to in a few minutes,’ he said, walking to her horse to look up at her, ‘whether you like it or not.’
‘I’ll not like it, then,’ she answered, looking away from K. John. ‘Besides you don’t know if he wants to come with us. You don’t even know if you can rouse him from a drunken stupor.’
‘You’re a hard woman, Flower!’ K. John shook his head, but Flower did not respond. He pushed away from her horse and walked up on to the hotel porch. K. John still had his doubts. They were wasting time here, or so it seemed. Yet, he was still unsure that they could do anything to stop the wedding of Justine and Willit. He had decided to apply his efforts to trying something he thought he could resolve. Angry as Flower was, he thought that bringing father and daughter together again would remedy that. Besides, with Willit and Justine in that slow-moving buggy, with the time the making of arrangements, socializing and performing the actual ceremony would take, K. John believed that they could still catch up if they put their heels to their ponies.
He had Tremaine dressed, up and moving within minutes, although the old man remained groggy and unfocused. K. John handed Tremaine his Winchester.
‘You may need this now.’
‘What’s this you’re telling me? Clyde Willit has tricked a young girl into marrying him just to get his claws into her father’s ranch?’
‘That’s the way it seems—get your hat.’
‘Hell, yes! I’ll ride to stop that. Let me grab one small drink for the road.’ Tremaine reached for the bedside bottle.
‘Flower’s going with us. She’s outside, waiting,’ K. John said in a soft voice, and he watched the man’s hand, which had gripped the whiskey bottle so firmly, fall away again.
‘Flower? Here?’ Tremaine seemed stunned.
‘That’s right. Willit’s leaving gave me the opportunity I needed to slip into the Double O and get her.’
‘Then I’d better ... ’ Tremaine’s eyes seemed to be clouding up.
‘Then we’d better get going—now!’ K. John said, sharply. Tremaine only nodded and shuffled forward, following K. John out the door.
Flower waited, not patiently, but with a sort of grim determination. She had promised herself that she would not speak to her father, would not smile, but as she saw the old man shambling through the door with K. John, her resolve broke and a smile spread across her face. She practically leaped from her horse and rushed to Tremaine to hug him.
So many childhood memories, Christmases, birthdays, picnics and hard times spent together could not be easily discarded.
K. John gave them a moment or two as Flower murmured small words and Tremaine stroked her hair. When they fell into old meaningless chatter to buffer their present feelings, K. John put a halt to it.
‘We’ve somewhere to be,’ he said.
‘I don’t want my daughter going,’ Tremaine insisted. ‘She’s been hurt. I won’t have her hurt again.’
&nbs
p; ‘It’s not your decision,’ Flower said. ‘I’m going, and that’s it.’
‘Why?’ Tremaine asked, in a distraught voice.
‘Because, as you taught me, a job begun has to be finished, and a person is only as good as his word. I’ve taken Emerson Masters’ money and swore to do a job for him. It’s not the job I expected, but it’s mine all the same.’
‘Then let’s get it done,’ K. John said from horseback. ‘Time’s a-wasting,’ he added, even while knowing he was responsible for most of the delay. Watching father and daughter as they rode side by side out of town, though, he considered that whatever time he had wasted had been well worth it.
The sun was hot, the sky bright. After a mile or so K. John began to see fine dust sifting down, and he knew they were not far behind their quarry.
‘How far did you say this house is?’ he asked Flower.
‘I don’t know for sure. All I know is it’s some distance. I heard the Judge tell Clyde Willit at the Double O that he was grateful to have a place far enough from the rabble that he didn’t have to smell them. Clyde told him that that rabble was making him rich and that he could stand the smell for a while longer.’
‘What are you planning to do when we get there?’ Warren Tremaine asked. He looked woeful and a little concerned. K. John had no answer for him. What was he going to do? It would depend on circumstances; and whatever he decided, it would take more than a bit of luck. He wished again that Flower had not come along, but there was no dissuading the girl. Just then she chirped up:
‘We’re taking Justine no matter what!’
Which was easier to say than do. Either Flower had a baseless trust in K. John’s ability or an innocent trust in blind faith assisting the righteous. They had come to a stretch of the trail which wound its way across a wooded knoll among scrub oaks and scattered pines of some size. For this part of the country it was a considerable forest. Judge Baxter had chosen the location for his house wisely.
The trail dipped and rose again as it rounded a turn. A man with a rifle in his hands emerged from the woods, hat tugged low.
‘You’re on the wrong road, friends,’ he said, and now K. John recognized him as the thug named Dungee.
‘Can’t be. We’re riding to the Judge’s,’ K. John said easily, trying to shift in the saddle so that he would have a better chance at his Colt should the gunman start shooting trouble.
‘I said you’re on the wrong trail,’ Dungee warned them again. ‘You can turn around now or stay here to get yourself buried.’
‘You’re one man alone,’ the cracked voice of Warren Tremaine said.
‘Is that what you think, old man? That would be plain stupid of me, wouldn’t it?’
Glancing into the woods, K. John was certain that the man was not bluffing. He spotted the shadowy figure of a second man partly screened by the low brush there.
‘Well,’ Dungee said. ‘I warned you twice.’ Then his rifle went to his shoulder.
And before K. John could respond, the Winchester spoke. But it was not Dungee’s gun. The shot came from behind and beside K. John, and he looked to see the smoke curling from the muzzle of Warren Tremaine’s rifle. Simultaneously, he saw Dungee go to his knees, his rifle dropping free of his hands; saw Dungee bring his belt gun up. And K. John shot him.
The thug pitched forward on his face and remained there in the dirt.
The second gunman burst from the bushes, firing twice. Warren Tremaine’s rifle spoke again, and a slug from its barrel hit the man hard, high on the shoulder, spinning him around. He dropped to the forest floor and disappeared from their view. After a few seconds, K. John said, ‘I’d better have a look for him. It wouldn’t do to have a man with a rifle at our backs.’
‘K. John,’ Flower said with some worry in her tone, but K. John was already down from the saddle, entering the woods in a crouch, rifle in his hand.
The tall pines appeared as black-painted images against the pale brilliance of the sky.
K. John was circling toward the spot where he had last seen the ambusher, unwilling to walk directly toward him. A squirrel chattered away and bounded off through the boughs of a tree. The pines were laden with drifted dust, their scent heavy in the heated air. K. John shuffled his boots as he walked, to make only whispering sounds and not hefty clomps.
Attentive as he was, nevertheless K. John nearly stepped on the man, sprawled on the ground in the litter of brush; so suddenly did he come upon him. The man was wounded badly. He was trying to staunch the blood leaking from his shoulder, the blood soaking into his bandana, and he was having precious little luck at it. It was Bean, another one of Hammond’s sidekicks. He appeared to have lost his rifle, but he still had a Colt strapped to his hip. K. John raised the butt of his rifle to his shoulder. An ashen face turned up toward him.
‘Don’t shoot, mister ... oh, it’s you!’ Bean said. His eyes were wide, miserable, pleading for mercy.
‘It’s me,’ K. John answered. ‘Didn’t you recognize me before?’ Bean shook his head, returning his attention to his bleeding wound.
‘You always shoot at men you don’t even know?’ K. John asked. Bean did not respond. His haggard face had gone almost ghostly white.
‘I need a doctor,’ the bad man said.
‘Yes, you do,’ K. John said. He still had not lowered the rifle.
‘Look,’ Bean said in desperation, ‘don’t you recall—I saved your life that day in the alley. Hammond wanted to beat you to death and I stopped him. Give me a break. Please, mister!’
‘I remember,’ K. John said. ‘I also remember you were a willing participant in the beating up until then.’
‘Just give me a chance!’ Bean begged. ‘You can’t shoot me down like a dog.’
‘First, toss that pistol you’re wearing aside,’ K. John said. The man did so. He felt no real sympathy for Bean, nor did he owe him a debt of gratitude for what amounted to nothing more than Bean not wishing to get involved in a murder back there in Crossroads. But then, he had never shot a defenseless man, and he was not going to start now.
‘Go on, get out of here—now!’ K. John snarled in his nastiest voice.
‘Give me a hand up,’ Bean said.
‘Get yourself up,’ K. John replied, already tired of the man.
‘I won’t forget this,’ Bean said.
‘Sure you will. Bean—don’t ever let me run into you again! I mean it.’
Bean had reached the trunk of a nearby tree on hands and knees, now he was trying to lever himself to his feet, using the tree as support. K. John paused only to pick up the man’s revolver from the ground, and then turned and strode away.
Bean would either make it or he wouldn’t make it.
For now there were others that K. John had to see to. He emerged from the trees to find his two companions where he had left them. Flower’s face still carried concern. Her dark-green eyes were soft, questioning. Tremaine asked:
‘Find him?’
‘Yes. He won’t be bothering us again.’ K. John swung back into the saddle. ‘Have you seen anything?’ he asked.
‘There’s no sign of the house that I can see.’
Half a mile on there was. The road took another bend or two and came out at the front of the white house of Judge Baxter. The three riders halted their horses.
‘They will have heard those shots,’ Tremaine believed. ‘They’ll be staying low, watching.’
‘Maybe. That will depend.’ On whether they thought that Bean and Dungee had been enough to stop anyone approaching, and maybe, K. John thought, on how close a business alliance Willit and Judge Baxter actually had. Baxter might not like the idea of men hiding out in his house to begin a gunfight.
Flower had been silent. Now she raised a pointing finger toward the house and shouted, ‘There she is!’
And there she was.
Justine Masters sat alone in the buggy, which was drawn up in front of the Judge’s house, her face looking pinched and angry.
; ‘How are we going to ... ?’ Tremaine began, but Flower gave them no chance to formulate a plan. She had spotted her quarry, and she meant to capture her, even if it meant riding into a hailstorm of lead from the outlaw guns below.
Chapter Nine
As Tremaine and K. John watched, momentarily frozen in fear and admiration, Flower rode the paint pony directly at the buggy where the blonde woman waited. Justine’s head turned at the sound of the approaching horse.
They could just about hear Flower ask, ‘Is this your horse?’ and see Justine, startled, open her mouth but say nothing in response. Flower seemed to say something else to the girl, but what, they couldn’t make out at that distance. They watched as Flower swung down from the pony, glanced once toward the house, then stepped into the buggy, nudging Justine aside. This clearly angered the rancher’s daughter, mightily.
‘What’s she trying to do?’ Warren Tremaine asked.
‘She’s your daughter—you tell me.’
K. John had almost finished his sentence when they saw Flower grab the reins to the buggy, slap them against the flanks of the bay horse and, with Justine screaming as she held her little white hat on with one hand and gripped the hand-rail tightly with the other, start the horse and buggy running toward the open land beyond.
Oddly, no one emerged from the Judge’s house, but K. John was not eager to ride closer to it.
‘Better catch up,’ Tremaine suggested, with a sort of sour respect for his daughter. ‘She’s likely to need some help along the way.’
They came upon the buggy half a mile on. No one had yet emerged from the house to give chase. K. John had kept his eyes on the Judge’s house. Why the timidity on Clyde Willit’s part? He had only one shooter with him—Hammond—so that could be it. Maybe whatever business he and Baxter had to discuss was more important to Willit than another marriage. It didn’t matter much to K. John—so long as they got away safely.
The land ahead leveled out into a red-dirt, sage-stippled desert flat.
‘Where’s she going?’ Tremaine, still riding close to K. John, asked.
Crossroads (A Piccadilly Publishing Western Book 8) Page 7