Nemesis

by L. J. Martin

  By afternoon I was saddled on a good strong steel gray dappled gelding, had a pack animal behind me, and was on the trail. Had I half a brain, it would be on the trail back to the Salmon River country, but I’ve never been accused of being mentally endowed.

  If Dillon suspected I’d be coming, he’d be looking for me to come from town, riding north to his main gates, so I figured to make a wide circle around the ranch and come at him from the north, and in the dead of night. In order to get anywhere near the big ol’ main house, I figured I’d need a distraction, and it seemed nothing would get Dillon’s attention like some trouble with that fancy new bull. Thanks to Curly Stewart, I knew just where to find him.

  That bull was high priced and highly prized, but no more than I valued Ranger and Dusty, and had I my way, Dillon would die for my sister and her family, and worse, die slow for my animals, which had been my close family for a goodly long time. I had a mind to turn a fine bull backstrap over a slow fire.

  Liam Toole had died at my hand in Sally’s. Enrico Zaragosa from my lucky shot during the first gunfight at the McGregor’s. Willy Stark had died charging into my room and into Angel’s accurate Remington during the second gunbattle at McGregor’s. Tate Jorgenson had half his chest blown away from the big slug of my 45-90 at about the same time.

  I figured it was the Indian, Crooked Arm; Shank Cavanaugh, the gunfighter; Dillon’s nephew Seth Rheinhart; and Dillon himself, then my work was done. It turned out there was nine of them who’d raided the Bar M, more than I’d figured on, but I was fifty percent home, downhill the rest of the way.

  Only able to describe the time since I left the Salmon country as a rampage, I thought of the others. The two bandits who’d accompanied Natchez Pete Pelletier who I’d left in the dirt after they’d robbed Dillon’s bank—hell, had I known it was Dillon’s money, I’d of shot high. Pelletier himself, at the end of Judge Thorne’s rope. The big man who’d died from loss of blood after getting his leg snapped off out in the sage near McGregor’s. And another fella now walking with a peg leg, could I believe Curly Stewart, and I had no reason not to.

  Willy Stark had fallen to Angel’s shot from inside the cabin; then another had fallen to his Remington from his position in the hayloft; and another man had run from the same place, if you can call dragging a leg running.

  It had been a trail of blood so far, including more than a dollop of mine, and it wasn’t over. Seven men dead and at least one crippled.

  But it was my intention to make it end, and to set Maddy McGregor and the reverend on their way home.

  It was clouding up, scattered, but I hoped they would gather as the moon had been bright, and light would be my enemy.

  When I got to the low hills a bit over a mile north of the Lazy Snake headquarters I could see a creek bed, cut a dozen feet deep into the sage covered flat, that ran to within a quarter mile of Dillon’s house, and quickly decided that would be my path, but it was still mid afternoon. I made camp, rolled my bear coat out in the shade of some tall sage near the cut of the same trickle that ran past Dillon’s headquarters a mile or more away, and went to sleep. I was still not back to normal, not to my full strength, and prayed I was up to the task at hand.

  When I awoke, it was full dark with a fat full moon, and it overhead. The clouds were still sparse, but I hoped getting heavier. There was a whiff of rain in the air, and it could be my friend if it came and darkened the sky. I’d slept longer than I meant to. It must have been well past midnight.

  I made a pan full of soup from a handful of jerked venison and sipped it along with gnawing some hard bread I’d found in Maddy’s kitchen, then saddled up, leaving the pack horse staked out in a grassy flat near the trickle of water.

  With my Golden Boy fully loaded, my LeMats’ the same and in their saddle holsters, my Army Colt and saber on my belt, and my two shot gambler’s gun in my coat pocket, I let the gray begin to pick his way down the creek bed.

  It was dark as a foot up a bull’s butt when I managed to spot a much smaller barn and paddock beyond the main barn. It was, I was sure, his majesty Napoleon’s palace…but it wouldn’t be for long.

  I tied the gray to one of the river willows lining the creek and, carrying the Yellow Boy with my Army 44 in it’s holster, the belly gun in my coat pocket, and one of the LeMats in my belt, crept up to the edge of the embankment so I was just eye high over the rim.

  It was a hundred and fifty yards or so to the building, in the moonlight, and I’d be surprised if Dillon didn’t have guards posted, so I hunkered down in a copse of river willows and watched…and sure enough, I saw the flare of a Lucifer near the front door on the wide porch surrounding the main house. There was most likely a man out back as well, but I doubted if there’d be a man in Napoleon’s barn. I stationed myself with the barn between me and the porch, and strolled over as if I owned the place.

  I was wrong.

  I saw the flickering light of a lamp between the barn boards, found a knothole, and took a gander, just as the notes of a flute floated my way.

  In moments, I’d located the hooligan, hunkered down in a pile of loose hay, a pipe smoking near at hand, and a carved flute in his mouth. Crooked Arm wasn’t bad with the instrument, and had I time I’d have sat back to enjoy his last melody. Glad that it wasn’t another Lazy Snake hand I’d have to dispatch, not one of those I hunted, I flattened my back to the wall and slipped around to the front door, wondering if maybe I’d just charge in and get the drop on him, or make some noise so he’d wander out to see what was up.

  The problem was, the pass-through door built into one of the barns two wide main doors, was in plain sight of the man on the porch, another hundred yards away. The good news was there was two foot of moon shadow on that side of the barn, and I was in it.

  I didn’t have long to contemplate, for a Shepard cow dog made up my mind.

  He was only a half dozen paces from me, and cut loose like he was part wolf, racking my backbone, tightening my butt, and straightening me so I jerked back against the barn door, making a racket that would wake a hibernating bear, much less a flute playing Shoshone.

  The hound didn’t fly at me but was raising hell as if he’d treed a cougar.

  I pinned myself to the door, behind where the pass through would open, and waited.

  In seconds, the door swung open, and I heard “hush, dog.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Stepping out just far enough to do so, I brought the heavy barrel of the Yellow Boy across the Indian’s pate, but it was a glancing blow and he staggered back inside. By the time I got to him he had knife in hand. I was prepared to give him the butt of the rifle to his forehead, but the blade changed my mind, and I reversed things and again swung the heavy barrel, cracking his wrist and sending the knife flying. He tried to make it past me to the door, but I kicked his legs out from under him and he went down, paining my own so much I damn near went down. Aiming at his head again, but with him scrambling, the barrel took him across the back shoulder high. He grunted and I heard his breath escape, and I was able to swing again, this time whacking him a good one across the back of the neck, and he went down like the sack of pig dung he was.

  I quickly reversed the rifle, and drove the butt into the back of his head, and he stilled. I doubted if he’d ever awaken as his head was well smashed.

  Only then could I check my surroundings in the dim light of the kerosene lamp. The barn was only ten paces by forty. One side of the front of the barn was a grain bin, the other an enclosure for loose hay. The rear of the barn, most of the building, was a paddock for the bull, who was watching me with disdain.

  Then I heard footfalls, and moved to the front of the building near the door. “What the hell are you up to?” I heard called out. As quickly as I arrived, the door swung open and a cowhand stumbled in, a badly rolled cigarette hanging from his lips. I didn’t know this one.

  His sidearm was still holstered, which was his mistake.

  I shoved the muzzle of the
rifle under his chin, and gave him some advice I figured would keep him quiet. “One little squeak out of you and the top of your head will be back in Nemesis.”

  His eyes flared and he carefully raised his hands. “Who are you?” I demanded.

  “Hell’s fire, I work here, who are you?”

  “I didn’t come here to palaver. I asked your name?”

  “Sam. Samuel Prichard. I work here.”

  “Well, Sam Prichard, I can shoot a hole in you that bull could walk through, or I could tie you up. Your preference.”

  “Hell, no choice there. Tie me up.”

  There was a lead rope with a snap on the end for the bull’s nose ring, so I suggested he fetch it, which he did, but he spun and tried to lash me with the heavy snap. I brought the butt of the Golden Boy up and caught him under the chin, he went down, but managed to kick me a hell of a lick on my bad knee on the way.

  I crumpled, and we were both on the ground, him grabbing for his side arm, me swinging the heavy barrel, which caught him at the base of the neck. He gasped for breath, and the second swing took him across the side of the head.

  He was a lot easier to handle unconscious. I was tired of killing fellows I didn’t know or didn’t have a grudge against, so I jerked him to his feet, walked him out the front door, where the Shepard took up his yapping again, and the cowhand stumbling like a Saturday night drunk toward the creek until I was fifty yards from the barn. Him stumbling, me dragging a leg that was shooting pain all the way to the top of my head, made for a tough trip. Luckily, he was wearing a dust storm sized neckerchief so I hog tied and gagged him before he came fully conscious.

  Now, for the barn and the bull.

  To my great surprise the Indian was stirring when I came back in, so I gave him a good whack again. He should have thanked me for it, as he was staying with the barn, a fitting end for what he did to my sister and her beautiful family, and unconsciousness would be his friend when a fire licked at his hams.

  But the bull wasn’t at fault. Still, should he have to go, that was just Dillon’s tough luck. Much as I know his demise would pain Dillon, I didn’t plan on Dillon being around to be pained. I opened the outside gate to his corral and the doors from his paddock to the outside, then scrambled for the fence as the thought of being stomped by Dillon’s bull before finishing with Dillon was not high on my list. The bull, however, didn’t bother to come through the doors. I imagined he soon would, as I’ve never known one of God’s creatures who’d run into a fire.

  The kerosene lamp was still flickering, and I emptied half of it’s bottom well on the hay, opened the chimney, and gave it a toss. Before I could make it out the door, the hay had a good lick of fire going.

  I headed straight for the house and made the front porch before the barn really lit up. The bull was smart enough to find the doors, the corral, and the open gate. By the time the flames licked through the split shingle roof, he was trotting for the high country.

  Dillon’s front door wasn’t locked, so I walked in, limped into his parlor, and poured myself three fingers of his good whiskey, which dulled my own throbbing pains.

  A full minute hadn’t passed before I heard men yelling outside, and a man crashed through the front door and took the stairs three at a time, yelling for his bossman.

  It wasn’t another half minute before Dillon, barefoot and in nightshirt, and his man flew past the doorway to the parlor and charged outside. I walked to the window and watched them, in the growing firelight, hot footing it across the barnyard. Men had poured out of the bunkhouse and taken up a water wagon and buckets. But the barn was well past that solution.

  I slugged down my whiskey and slipped out of the parlor and limped up the stairs. There were six doors off the upstairs hallway, with a window at either end of the hall. One of the doors was standing open. I peered in and figured, by the size of the room, big four poster bed, desk, table and chairs, it housed the master of the abode…who’d vacated in a hurry.

  The door next to Dillon’s opened before I could rap on it with the barrel of the rifle, and Maddy McGregor stood wide eyed, a wrap around her nightgown.

  “Sorry to disturb and to catch you in your bed clothes—“

  “Tag. Tag Slade, what are you doing here?”

  “Coming to fetch you home, and other business.”

  “Did you start that fire?”

  “Look, Maddy, I don’t have a lot of time. Do you want to get home or not?”

  “Mace said he had nothing to do with that fire at the Bar M.”

  “Mace said?” I had to shake my head, astounded.

  “Yes, he had nothing to do—“

  “You’re telling me you don’t want to leave.”

  “Mace and I….”

  “Then you’ll pardon me, Miss McGregor,” I started away.

  “Tag, you’ll never get away from here.”

  “Got here just fine, thank you, and will get away just fine.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “But you don’t doubt Dillon’s word.”

  “Mace Dillon is a Christian man, and a gentleman.”

  “He brought you here against your will.”

  “His men brought me here—“

  “And Dillon wouldn’t let you leave.”

  “He made me stay and listen, and I’m glad I did as I believe him. He’s going to build papa another church—“

  I laughed. “Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and to God, the things that are God’s.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you’ve done sold your soul.”

  She slammed the door, and I kicked it open. “Get your father and get out of this house, Maddy. It’s going up just like the barn.” She slammed it shut again but it bounced open as I had damaged it badly. And as I headed for the stairway, I heard her shouting out her window, “Mace! Mace! Help, he’s in here.”

  I paused in the kitchen, where Chang was lighting a lantern, thinking I’d take it from him and use it to flame the house, but I couldn’t bring myself to do so with Maddy and her father upstairs. I’d become a stone cold killer, but I couldn’t take the risk of burning alive two who’d helped me at one time, no matter how astray they’d drifted.

  I’ve been wrong about many things in my life, but never quite so mistaken as I was about Maddy McGregor. I’d never have guessed her one to bow under the weight of gold.

  So I charged out the back door and headed for the brush, in the opposite direction as where the gray was tied. It would be a long circle to take to get back to my horse with my leg paining me but that I had to do.

  The hell of it was, I’d planned to end this all this night, and had only accomplished one more body, that of Crooked Arm who I was sure was now cooked meat.

  Still I had three to go. Cavanaugh, Dillon, and his nephew, Rheinhart.

  Then I saw Shank Cavanaugh, tying his saddled mount up to the rail in front of a smaller house out behind the bunkhouse.

  My backbone flashed a lightning bolt as hot as the barn, which was now falling in on itself, and I headed at a limping but determined stride toward the gunfighter. Two dozen men stood far enough back from the barn to escape being scorched, hands on hips, watching, transfixed, I hoped, as if they turned, I’d be in easy rifle shot range…but they held buckets, not rifles.

  My Golden Boy was cocked and in hand, so no matter how Cavanaugh might have healed up from my beatings, I had the advantage.

  From fifty yards away, the burning barn almost two hundred yards the other way, I shouted. “Cavanaugh!” He didn’t hear me, finished tying the horse, and was moving to loosen the animal’s latigo, when I shouted again from forty yards. “Cavanaugh!”

  He glanced up, put a hand up to his ear, signaling that he couldn’t hear, and started my way. Obviously, he had yet to recognize me, but when I stopped at thirty five yards and brought the rifle to my shoulder, a long pistol shot but nothing for the Golden Boy, he stopped short, and stared.

  Then he
slapped leather.

  Even as ready as I was, he got off the first shot, which cut the air near my head. My shot spun him, and he went down, but up on one elbow, still firing.

  I felt burning lead slap my thigh, and levered in another shell and snapped off a shot, and this one knocked him to flat on his back. Stumbling forward, levering in another shell, I fired again, and his body jerked then shuddered. By the time I reached him, he was still, his eyes wide open. I felt a shot or remorse,…not for him, but for the fact I wanted him to die slow and hard, damn the luck.

  Hearing running men approaching, and shouting, I wasted no time raising my remaining good leg into the stirrup. It was all I could do to get into the saddle, but I managed and bent low as lead cut the air all around me. I gave a heel to the horse, and he responded with a leap and was gaining strides until we disappeared into the brush.

  At a pounding gallop, I circled back to where the gray was tied. I was able to get his reins tied to his saddle horn, and pounded away. He was a good animal, and followed. I knew I was in for the ride of my life, as all of those obliged to the Lazy Snake were fine horsemen and rode for the brand.

  They’d be hot on my trail, and if they got close enough, the lead would be flying.

  The hell of it is, I’m bleeding again, and I can’t imagine I’ve got a lot to spare. Slowing enough I jerk my pant’s belt off and get it tight around my upper thigh, north of the wound, pulling it as tight as I can stand.

  I have to find a place to hole up, at least long enough to get the bleeding from my thigh stopped, before I die in the saddle.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I figured they wouldn’t follow until light, three hours or so away, so I had some time to put some distance between us. So long as I stayed conscious. Staying in the little creek bottom I was able to hide my trail for a while, but it wouldn’t fool a tracker as even the slow moving creek would show tracks. A mile or so from where I’d tied the gray, we pulled up out of the crick into heavy sage, then up again onto a granite outcropping. I had high hopes it would not be marked by the horses, but as both of them were shod, I wasn’t confident. To a real hand, iron shoes would mark granite just as well as soft ground.