Brutal Vengeance

by J. A. Johnstone

“Georgia. His folks brought him and the rest of the family here after the war, when Latch was just a little shaver. They’d lost pert near everything when ol’ William Tecumseh Sherman came marchin’ through, and then the Yankee carpetbaggers come in and took the little bit that was left. Made Latch’s pa pretty bitter, I expect. He settled the family over in East Texas, close to Nacogdoches. I don’t care for that piney country. Too woody and snaky for my tastes.

  “Anyway, that’s about all I know. I got a hunch Latch was a mite off in the head all along. A fella don’t go that loco overnight. When we sent Rangers over to Nacogdoches to find out if any of his family that’s still there had seen him lately, they heard stories about some of the things he done as a kid growin’ up.”

  Culhane shook his head. “The neighbors learned mighty quick to keep their own kids and their pets away from that Latch boy.”

  “You wouldn’t think somebody like that would be able to put together such a big gang and manage to avoid being caught for so long,” The Kid commented.

  “Just because a fella’s plumb crazy don’t mean he ain’t plenty smart, too.”

  The Kid knew that was true. In his past, he had been plagued by a vengeance-seeking woman who had been cruelly insane, but also cunning enough to wreak havoc in his life on several occasions, in several different ways.

  It was a good thing Pamela Tarleton had never met Warren Latch, he mused. If those two had ever gotten together, the results might have been too horrifying to contemplate.

  But Pamela was dead, and with any luck Warren Latch soon would be, too, or at least safely locked up behind bars.

  The men began to turn in for the night, except for the ones who would be standing guard. The Kid had one of the middle shifts, so he rolled into his blankets and went to sleep.

  Woody Anderson, the burly blacksmith from Fire Hill with the wounded arm, woke him when it was his turn to be on watch.

  “Everything quiet, Woody?” The Kid asked.

  Anderson nodded. “Yeah, nothin’ stirrin’ out there tonight.” The man’s voice was a rumble, even when he was trying to be quiet.

  The Kid clapped a hand on the shoulder of Anderson’s good arm. “Fine. Go get some sleep.”

  He picked up his Winchester and walked out beyond the small ring of light cast by the fire, which had burned down to embers, giving off only a feeble glow.

  Plenty of stars and a sickle-shaped moon revealed the landscape around him. A couple hundred yards from the camp, The Kid found a small knoll where he could sit down.

  Culhane had said the posse would reach the end of the plains the next day, but for tonight, they were still surrounded by flat prairie dotted with brush and an occasional stand of scrubby trees. The hardy grass was starting to turn brown from the summer heat and lack of rain.

  All The Kid’s senses were alert as he sat there watching, listening, and even smelling the night. His instincts were on keen edge. He had no real reason to think the posse might be attacked, but the possibility always existed that Latch might double back and try to ambush them.

  Other, unknown dangers could be lurking out there in the night, too. It never hurt to be careful.

  Because even when you were, things could happen.

  Terrible things.

  Because he was so on edge and just waiting for trouble, it wasn’t surprising that a little while later The Kid heard a noise, the sort of faint sound most men wouldn’t hear and wouldn’t think anything of if they did.

  It was only a tiny clink, but he knew it was the sound of a horseshoe hitting a rock.

  Somebody was out there.

  Chapter 14

  Briefly, The Kid considered waking Culhane, but he didn’t want to disturb the Ranger’s sleep for something that might turn out to be nothing.

  The rider he’d heard might be a lone cowboy just drifting past in the night, on his way back to an isolated ranch from a night in town ... although The Kid didn’t know what settlements, if any, were around there.

  Deciding it would be better to get some more information before raising an alarm, he slid down from the knoll and moved silently into a small stand of trees. The thick shadows under the branches completely concealed him as he waited tensely to see if anyone was coming closer to the camp.

  A few minutes later, not just one rider but several men on horseback moved into The Kid’s view. The light was not good. It was hard for him to tell how many shadowy figures there were. Three or four, he thought.

  They reined in not far from him, and he heard one of them say in a half whisper, “I tell you, I saw the glow from a campfire up ahead a little ways, Slim.”

  “I believe you,” the man called Slim said. “It’s got to be that damned posse, just like the boss thought. But we’d better make sure. I suppose it might be a caravan of freight wagons or something like that.”

  In the stygian darkness under the trees, The Kid stiffened at the words he had just overheard. He had no doubt the men were members of Latch’s gang. The boss outlaw must have sent them back to scout for the posse and find out how far behind the pursuit was.

  It would be easy enough to bring the Winchester to his shoulder and open fire on them, The Kid thought. Shooting was tricky in bad light, even at short range, but there was a good chance he could bring down all of them.

  But if he waited and continued to spy on them, they might say something else that would come in handy to know.

  He was confident they weren’t going to ambush the camp. Since there were only four of them—The Kid was certain of that number now that he could see them better—starting a fight with a group the size of the posse would be foolhardy.

  “If it is the posse, you think they got Cooper and the others prisoner?” one of the other men asked.

  “Not likely,” Slim replied. “The fellas would’ve put up a fight. Anyway, after seeing what happened to those women, the posse wouldn’t have been in any mood to take prisoners. They’d have strung those poor bastards up to the nearest tree.”

  Slim was right about that, The Kid thought, although it was possible Culhane would have tried to insist the men be held for trial.

  But even a Texas Ranger’s will might not prevail in a situation like that.

  “No, if those boys were still at the ranch when the posse got there, they’re dead now,” Slim continued. “I just hope they took some of the posse with ’em.”

  Too bad, Slim, The Kid thought. That hadn’t happened ... and the four outlaws were lying in a shallow grave, which was more than they deserved. Leaving them for the buzzards and the coyotes would have been more fitting.

  “What do we do now?” one of the men asked.

  “I want to get a little closer,” Slim said. “When I tell Warren what we found, I want to know as much as I possibly can about that posse.”

  More than ever, The Kid wanted to start blasting away at them. They were partially responsible for what had happened to Molly, Paula, and Helen Gustaffson, not to mention all the death and devastation back in Fire Hill.

  Though The Kid hadn’t witnessed that destruction firsthand, the memory of how he had found the three women earlier in the day was still very fresh in his mind. If anybody ever deserved some hot lead justice, it was those four skunks.

  However, they might be more valuable in the long run if they could be taken prisoner and made to reveal what they knew about Latch’s plans.

  That was uppermost in The Kid’s mind as he moved soundlessly to the edge of the trees and watched the men dismount. One man took the reins of all four horses while the other three outlaws crept closer to the camp on foot.

  Watching his companions sneak closer to the camp, the man holding the horse never saw The Kid creeping up soundlessly behind him. As he came within arm’s length, The Kid raised the Winchester to ram the rifle’s butt against the back of the man’s head.

  But before he could strike, someone shouted, “Hey, who are you fel—”

  Gunshots interrupted the startled cry, but The Kid had hea
rd enough to recognize the voice. It belonged to Nick Burton. The Kid didn’t know if Nick was standing guard, or if he’d just gotten up to relieve himself or something like that.

  Either way, Nick was in the middle of plenty of trouble.

  The Kid finished the blow he had started to launch. The butt of his Winchester crashed against the back of the outlaw’s head. The man let go of the horses’ reins and dropped like a rock.

  Suddenly freed, and startled by the shout and the gunshots, the horses bolted. Leaping back quickly, The Kid managed to avoid being trampled.

  As soon as the animals were out of his way, he ran toward the sounds of battle. Muzzle flashes split the darkness, but there was no way to tell who was firing until he got closer.

  With no warning, a rapidly moving shape charged out of the night and collided with The Kid. They caromed off each other, the impact causing The Kid to drop his rifle as he fell to the ground.

  The other man lost his footing, too. As he rolled over and came up, a stream of Spanish obscenities poured from his mouth. The Kid had met everybody in the posse and none of them were Mexican, so the Spanish curses pegged the man as one of the outlaws.

  The man drew his arm back and flashed it forward, further proving his hostile intent. Only The Kid’s almost superhuman reflexes saved him as he jerked out of the path of the knife whipping past him.

  The Kid palmed out his Colt and brought it up, hesitating for a second. If his opponent was armed only with the knife, he ought to be able to take him prisoner.

  The man clawed at his hip, eliminating that possibility. Starlight flickered on the barrel of a gun as the weapon cleared leather.

  The Kid didn’t wait any longer. He fired, flame licking from the barrel of the revolver in his hand.

  The bullet smashed into the outlaw’s chest and drove him backward. His finger clenched on the trigger of his gun in a dying spasm, but the bullet went harmlessly into the ground at his feet. He landed on his back in the loose sprawl of death.

  “There they go! Get ’em!”

  That was Culhane’s voice. The Kid heard pounding footsteps and realized the other two outlaws were fleeing straight toward him as fast as they could.

  The posse members had taken a few moments to get their wits about them after they’d been jolted out of sleep, but now they were awake and ready to fight. A barrage of shots directed at the remaining two outlaws lit up the night.

  Unfortunately, The Kid was in the path of the posse’s bullets, as well. He threw himself forward and hit the dirt, making himself as small a target as possible as lead shredded the air above his head.

  One of the outlaws howled in pain and threw his arms out to the sides as he stumbled, driven ahead by the slugs slamming into his back. When he lost his balance he pitched forward and landed facedown on the ground, practically beside The Kid.

  The other man remained unhit, protected from the storm of bullets by a providence he didn’t deserve. The Kid snapped a shot at him with the Colt, but the man kept moving fast as before.

  A couple seconds later The Kid heard hoofbeats. Coming across one of the horses left behind, the outlaw had grabbed it and leaped into the saddle. Over the shots fired by the posse men The Kid heard the drumming of the horses’s hooves on the prairie. The animal wasn’t slowing down.

  “Hold your fire! Hold your fire! It’s Morgan!”

  He had to yell a couple more times before Culhane heard him and bellowed, “Hold your fire, blast it! We got one of our men out there!”

  The shooting trailed off and then stopped completely. The Kid was still cautious as he poked his head up and called, “It’s me, Morgan! I’m coming in!”

  He got to his feet, looked around for a minute, and found his rifle lying where he had dropped it. As he walked up to the campsite, someone stirred the fire back to life and added some wood to it. Flames leaped up, casting a circle of light.

  Culhane didn’t have his hat or his boots on, but his gun was in his hand. Stepping up to The Kid, he asked, “What happened out there?”

  “Latch sent four men back to spy on us,” The Kid explained. “I happened to hear them coming and was able to get behind them. I was going to try to capture them, but then Nick yelled and the shooting started.” The Kid looked around at the gathered posse members. “I don’t see Nick. Is he all right?”

  A slight figure pushed between two of the other men and stepped forward.

  “Yeah, I’m all right, Mr. Morgan,” Nick Burton said. “Those outlaws shot at me when I saw them, but I was lucky. They didn’t hit me.”

  “What were you doin’ up, son?” Culhane asked. “It wasn’t your turn to stand guard.”

  “I, uh, couldn’t sleep,” Nick said uncomfortably. “I had to go off in the bushes and, uh, tend to some business.”

  “Did you tell anybody before you went to tend to that business?” Culhane asked.

  “Well ... no.”

  “Then you’re lucky one of our own guards didn’t ventilate you, let alone them owlhoots!” Culhane said. “Don’t go skulkin’ around in the dark, boy. It’s a good way to get killed.”

  Nick swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes, sir, Ranger Culhane. I’ll remember that from now on.”

  “See that you do,” Culhane said with a disgusted snort. He turned back to The Kid. “Did they all get away?”

  “Only one of them,” The Kid said. “And I knocked one of them out, so maybe we can get him to tell us exactly where Latch is heading.”

  “Give the prisoner ... to me,” Vint Reilly rasped. “I’ll make him talk.”

  “Take it easy, Reilly,” Culhane said. “Let me put my boots on, Morgan, and we’ll fetch in this fella.”

  A couple minutes later, Culhane and The Kid started toward the man who had been holding the horses. Thad Gustaffson and Jack Hogan went along, carrying burning branches plucked from the fire. It didn’t take them long to find the man who was lying facedown in the dirt.

  Culhane knelt and rolled him over. The man’s eyes stared up sightlessly into the torchlight.

  “Damn it,” The Kid burst out. “I didn’t think I hit him that hard.”

  Culhane lifted the outlaw’s head and felt the back of it. “Yep, his skull’s stove in, all right. You might not’ve done it, though, Morgan. The way those horses were stampedin’ around out here, one of them could’ve stepped on him.”

  That was true, The Kid supposed. Actually it was a more likely explanation. It was a stroke of bad luck, though. He’d been counting on getting some information from the prisoner.

  Now they just had three more dead outlaws to bury, instead of two.

  Unless Culhane decided to leave them for the carrion eaters this time.

  Chapter 15

  Duval was still a little shaken by the time he got back to the outlaw camp, long after midnight.

  On several occasions in his violent past, he had come close enough to dying to hear the whine of a bullet close to his head, but never in his life had he experienced the sheer terror of being caught in a volley like the one that had shot Al Haskins to pieces.

  Even though several hours had passed since then, Duval still found it hard to believe he wasn’t dead, too. Slugs had been humming around him like he had blundered into a swarm of bees. Yet not one of them had touched him.

  He had a guardian angel looking out for him, he supposed. That was the only explanation.

  Although considering the things he had done in his life, a guardian devil was more likely ...

  He reined to a halt on top of the ridge overlooking the hollow and called softly, “Hello, the camp!”

  “Who’s that?” one of the guards challenged him.

  Duval recognized Ortiz’s voice. “It’s me. Duval.”

  “Slim?” Holding a rifle, Ortiz stepped out from behind the tree where he had been standing. “Is that you? Where are the three hombres who went with you?”

  “Dead, is my best guess,” Duval said grimly. “I have to talk to the boss.”

&nbs
p; Ortiz shook his head. “I don’t envy you that job, amigo.”

  Duval snorted and rode on down the slope into the camp. His arrival disturbed some of the sleeping men, who roused up enough to curse bitterly.

  Duval asked, “Where’s the boss?”

  “I’m here,” Latch said as he strode forward. He knelt beside the embers of the fire and stirred them up so the red glow they gave off lit his face.

  The man had never looked more like Satan himself, Duval thought.

  Latch straightened to his feet and snapped, “What did you find out? Where are the other men?”

  “The posse’s back there, all right,” Duval reported. “About five miles behind us. I’m sorry, Warren. They killed Haskins, Jonah, and Sanchez.”

  Latch stiffened. His eyes widened with anger as he stepped toward Duval. “You weren’t supposed to engage them, just find out where they were.”

  “I know that. It wasn’t my idea to trade shots with them. One of the bastards was out wandering around in the brush where we didn’t expect anybody to be. He grabbed for a gun, and Sanchez panicked and started shooting at him. That got the whole camp mixed up in it.” Duval paused. “I’m damned lucky to be alive, Warren. The bullets were as thick as flies around me. But I knew I had to make it back here to report to you.”

  “So that excuses fleeing and leaving those other men behind to die?”

  Duval’s pride wouldn’t allow him to meekly accept the implication of cowardice in Latch’s sharply worded question. His own voice was sharp as he replied, “They were already down, shot to pieces, before I got out of there. I didn’t see how it would do any good for me to die there, too.”

  What he said wasn’t strictly, completely true. He had seen Al Haskins cut down and knew the man had to be dead. Nobody carried around that much lead and lived. And since the horses were loose, he had assumed that young Jonah was done for, as well.

  But he hadn’t seen Sanchez’s body. That was worrisome. If Sanchez was alive, and that posse had him, they might force him to talk.

  Duval wasn’t going to say anything about that and give Latch even more of a reason to be mad at him.