“Well, lookee here—if ain’t Miss Smart Mouth herself,” he said, giving her the twice-over with his shiny blue eyes.
“You two can just get the fuck out of my cabin,” Jacy said, hating the fear that made her voice tremble.
Randall turned his head to look around the cabin, then slid his cold eyes back to Jacy, the infuriating grin still there. “You all alone here, Miss Smart Mouth?”
“What’s it look like?” the big man answered for her. To Jacy he said again, “Where’d Talbot go?”
“What’s it to you?”
Randall laughed. He was standing between the big man and Jacy, sweeping Jacy with his eyes. “Ol’ Rag here’s got a score with Talbot. See that ear of his—the one with the bandage on it? That’s Talbot’s work.” Randall laughed. “Yes, sir, he sure did show Rag and my pa what was what and who was who up at the big house last night.” He laughed some more. There was no real mirth in it, but not for his lack of trying.
“Shut up,” the big man, Rag, said. To Jacy again: “Twelve of my men were ambushed last night, and I think he was part of it. Where is he?”
“He wasn’t part of it,” Jacy said defiantly. “I was part of it.”
Rag studied her cynically through slitted eyes. “Very funny. Where is he?”
“How should I know?”
“I just told you, we tracked him here, and from here, his tracks lead south. Now where’s he going? You tell me, you sassy little bitch, or so help me—”
“Rag,” Randall chided, his eyes remaining on Jacy. “That’s no way to talk to a girl. You have to charm a woman into giving up her secrets.”
“You’re a real lady’s man, Randall. Stay out of this,” Rag ordered, taking a step toward Jacy.
Eyes afire, Randall wheeled and lifted his heels to bark into the big man’s face, “Shut up! Just shut up, you hear? The great King Magnusson is not here, so I’m giving the orders, you understand? I’m in charge!”
Jacy turned her fearful, angry gaze to young Magnusson. Trying to steady her voice she said, “Be a man, Randall, and get out of here.”
“I don’t like how the girls around here talk to men. I’m thinkin’ you need to be taught a lesson, like that Rinski bitch.”
Jacy studied him, her anger growing keen. She inhaled sharply and swallowed. “You’re the one … you’re the little boy who shot Jack Thorn in his bed and savaged Mattie.”
Randall laughed, then said good-naturedly, “There goes that mouth of yours again.” His voice turned hard and his grin faded. “I don’t like being talked to like that.”
He reached out suddenly and grabbed her by the hair. Jacy cursed and lifted her arms to defend herself. Randall jerked her around by the hair, thrust her against the big man called Rag.
“Hold her good and tight, Rag. I’m gonna teach Miss Smart Mouth to show some respect to her gentleman callers.”
“We don’t have time for this, Randall,” Rag said without heat.
He was enjoying taunting the girl, watching the fear and anger in her eyes, feeling her tremble in his arms. It aroused him. He knew they needed to catch up with Talbot, but he couldn’t tear himself away. He wondered what Randall. was going to do, how far he would go.
Randall produced a butcher knife from a shelf. He held it up before his face, inspecting it, tested his thumb on the edge. “Ouch,” he said. “Sharp. Look at that.” He held up his hand to show Jacy the bead of blood on his thumb.
Jacy struggled but could not free her arms from the big man’s grasp. Randall stepped forward, thrusting the knife to within four inches of her face. Heart pounding, Jacy turned her head to the side, recoiling against the big man’s chest.
“Where did Talbot go?” Randall asked calmly.
Her voice was small but fervid. “Go fuck yourself.”
Randall lowered the blade to Jacy’s neck, held the blade against her throat. He lifted his eyes to hers, smiled. “Where’s Talbot?”
Jacy swallowed, fighting the urge to beg for her life. She was not going to beg these savages for anything. She’d rather die.
Still, she felt as though her heart would explode from the fear. She kept seeing Mattie Rinski in the rocking chair. “I told you to go fuck yourself,” she said, breathless.
Randall lowered the blade to her chest, pressed it flatly against her breasts, and with a sudden flick of his wrist sliced a button from her cotton shirt. “Anytime you’re ready to tell us where Talbot went, I’ll stop,” he said matter-of-factly.
He flicked another button from her shirt, then another. Jacy heard the big man breathing in her ear, felt his hands grow warm and sweaty against her wrists. She cursed. Another button hit the floor. Then two more and the shirt fell open, exposing her undershirt and a fair amount of cleavage.
Randall stepped back and inspected her breasts straining the thin, washworn fabric. He pressed the knife point against her left nipple. Jacy sobbed again. Tears rolled down her face.
“Are you going to tell us where Talbot went now, or do I have to keep going?”
“Go fuck … go fuck …” she said through the sobs that came freely now. She hung limp in the big man’s hands, her head hanging to her chest, hair down around her face.
Randall grabbed the neck of her undershirt and began cutting and tearing.
“No!” Jacy screamed, feeling something give way within her. “No!”
Just then a floorboard squeaked and another man appeared in the open doorway—a tall, thin man with a casual air. He had a long, angular face and thin lips between which a long black cigar poked. His features were distinctly Latin, but his eyes were impossibly blue.
The eyes held Jacy’s for a moment, and it was like having your gaze held and the air sucked out of your lungs by the sudden appearance of the devil himself.
“Come hither, my gringo amigos,” he said. “We don’t have time to play with little girls. Talbot’s tracks are clear.”
Then he turned away, giving his back to the kitchen. He stood on the porch, puffing his cigar, and looking across the ranchyard.
Randall cursed, staring at Jacy with animalistic desire. “This one on your list, José?”
“What, the girl? No. Just her hired man. I don’t shoot girls, I fuck them. But I don’t have time to fuck that one, so let’s go, amigos, before you piss me off.”
“This one’s being smart. She won’t tell us where Talbot went.”
“I know where Talbot went,” the Mexican said casually. He left the porch, and Jacy watched him walk across the ranchyard, mount a tall, black horse, and rein it south out of the yard.
Rag opened his hands and Jacy slumped to the floor, pulling her shirt closed, bringing her knees to her chest.
“Come on,” Rag said, turning for the door.
Randall cursed. He prodded Jacy with his boot. “Hey?” he said. “We’ll be back for more.”
Jacy turned her head and stared at the floor, crying softly and holding her arms over her breasts.
The big man turned on the porch and said, “If we happen to miss Talbot and he circles back, let him know we burned his cabin.” He laughed fiercely. “That should slow him down.”
CHAPTER 26
JED GIBBON SAT in the Sundowner playing solitaire with a rifle across his thighs.
Occasionally he looked up at the three men sitting across the room, in the shadows on the other side of the ticking stove—Thornberg’s men—to make sure they weren’t drunk. They were drinking beer instead of whiskey, and they were only sipping the beer, not guzzling it like they’d guzzled whiskey last night.
Like Gibbon, they kept glancing out the window, and whenever a wagon or horseback rider appeared in the street, one or two of them would jump, then cover it with a cough or with a curse at the cards in their hands.
Like Gibbon, they were nervous. Like Gibbon, they had a bad feeling about today.
Today was a long way from last night. They knew that Magnusson was on their trail. He could show up outside the window any second now, w
ith a posse of his own, and turn the tables a full hundred and eighty degrees in his favor.
Gibbon laid a jack of diamonds on a queen of spades and gave a start at the clatter of a buckboard. He looked out the window to see a farmer in an immigrant hat bounce down the street behind two broad-backed draft horses.
When the man was gone, Gibbon sipped his tepid coffee and peeled a three of hearts from the coffee-stained deck in his hand. He gave a slow sigh, pooching out his lips as he released it. By now Magnusson had to know about the roadhouse killings, and Gibbon would have bet a bottle of good Tennessee whiskey that he was on his way to town right now.
But you never knew. Maybe the rancher was going to wait until Gibbon’s defenses were down, until he’d grown heavy and slack with anticipation and worry, then ride to town in the dark of night and confront the sheriff when Thornberg’s men weren’t around to back him up.
That’s what Gibbon would have done. But he was hoping Magnusson would act on impulse. He was hoping the big blond Scandahoovian would be so angered at what had transpired at Gutzman’s roadhouse that he’d head for town pronto, careless with rage.
Turning his head to glance out the window again, Gibbon saw two more of Thornberg’s riders, sitting on the roof of the livery barn across the street. They were hunkered down beneath the peak, backs to the wind, smoking cigarettes. Gibbon knew there was one more man inside the barn, and several more stationed at other locations around the saloon.
Thornberg himself was inside Delmonico’s Café, three doors down on the other side of the street, waiting by a window, out of the cold. He’d sent several of his men home to man the ranch in the unlikely event Magnusson went there first, to burn him out.
He and his six other men had ridden with Gibbon to town. Like Gibbon, Thornberg figured Magnusson. would come here first, aimed at killing the sheriff before he lit out across the Bench tearing down barns and turning up sod.
All the other ranchers in Gibbon’s posse had returned to their ranches. Homer Rinski had wanted to join Gibbon and Thornberg in town, but Gibbon had talked him into returning to his ranch and his daughter. It hadn’t been easy convincing the old Bible thumper that his duty now lay at home, and Gibbon half expected to see Rinski ride into town with his Greener in his lap, those cold eyes fairly glowing.
The door of the saloon suddenly burst open, and Gibbon dropped his cards and swung the carbine out from under the table. The farmer who had just passed in the street entered, his little round spectacles frosted over so thickly he couldn’t see. His face was red and his scruffy beard was nearly white. The stoop-shouldered little man carefully closed the door then turned to regard the room.
Gibbon sighed with relief. “Good Lord, Asa,” he said, “why in hell did you have to pick today of all days to come to town? You haven’t been off the farm since August!”
Peering blindly through his frosty spectacles, the farmer said, in a heavy German accent, “Yah, vot’s going on? Vhere is everbody? It’s Sunday?”
“I’ve shut down main street ’cause I’m expectin’ trouble. Turn your team around and go back home, Asa. We’ll see you in May.”
“I need supplies.”
“Not today, Asa,” Gibbon said.
The farmer shook his head stubbornly. “No, I need supplies. That’s vy I come all da vay to town.”
“Sheriff,” one of Thornberg’s men said.
Gibbon looked beyond Asa Mueller to the street beyond the window and said, “Shit.”
Nearly a dozen men had ridden up. Most were typical Magnusson riders in sheepskin coats, Stetsons, and scarves, rifles in their gloved hands. They were a hard-faced, belligerent-looking bunch that looked none too pleased with what had transpired at Gutzman’s roadhouse.
In their midst was Magnusson wearing a fur coat and a fur hat, the mustaches above his grim mouth frosted white. Beside Magnusson rode the stout little man with red muttonchops who had been at Magnusson’s place when Gibbon had gotten the shit kicked out of him. He was the only one who did not look like he’d been chomping at the bit to come to town. In fact, he looked like he’d rather be anywhere but town.
All the rest more than made up for his reluctance. Magnusson himself looked like he was about to collect the proceeds from a million-dollar bet. “Come on out here, Gibbon!”
“Go out the back, Asa,” Gibbon said tightly.
The farmer had turned to look out the window. He was mumbling something under his breath, but Gibbon ignored him as he gained his feet and jacked a shell in his rifle breech. He stood and pulled on his coat, taking his time with the buttons.
Lifting his collar, he walked to the window and looked out. Magnusson stared at him through the glass, his face expressionless. Only his eyes showed a faint amusement.
“Okay, boys,” Gibbon said.
Thornberg’s riders had put down their cards, picked up their rifles, and now followed Gibbon onto the porch. They stood in a line, facing Magnusson and his riders.
“Mornin’,” Gibbon said casually. “Or is it afternoon now?”
Magnusson said nothing. He sat his big Arabian and scowled.
Gibbon shrugged. “Well, what brings you to Caanan, Magnusson? I thought the Double X did all its business in Big Draw.”
“You know why I’m here, you pathetic old bastard. You bushwhacked my men.”
“They were resistin’ arrest.”
“What’s the charge?”
“Suspicion of murder and cattle rustlin’.”
Magnusson laughed without mirth. The smile faded. Glancing at Thornberg’s men, he said, “Hired you some deputies, eh? Must have been expecting me.”
“Take a look behind you.”
Magnusson twisted around in his saddle, peering at the other riflemen on the roofs behind him. Gibbon heard a door open. Looking right, he watched Thornberg step out of the café and come down the boardwalk holding a rifle across his chest.
Thornberg tipped his hat and said, “Good day to you, King. I have a feeling you’re gonna lose that sappy grin of yours in about thirty seconds.” He jacked a shell and scowled.
“Mighty sure of yourself, aren’t you, Verlyn? How many men you packing today?”
“Ten, same as you, King. I’d say that’s a pretty fair fight.”
Gibbon said, “Doesn’t have to be a fight, Magnusson. All you have to do is throw your guns down, order your men to do likewise, and follow me over to the jail.”
“What are you talking about?” Magnusson scoffed. “You actually think you have any legal jurisdiction in this matter, Gibbon?”
“No,” Gibbon said. His face turned to stone. “I was just bein’ polite.”
He and Magnusson locked eyes.
Finally, a low growl rumbled up from the rancher’s chest, his lips fluttered, and his face reddened. He drew the silver-plated Bisley strapped over his coat, but he was too steamed to shoot straight. The bullet whistled past Gibbon’s ear and shattered the window behind him.
Gibbon lifted his Winchester and shot Magnusson in the shoulder just as the rancher’s horse swung around, spooked by the sudden gunfire. Magnusson yelled and clutched the wound with one hand while trying to control his mount with the other.
Magnusson’s riders lowered their rifles and Gibbon swung his own carbine around, dislodging one man and wounding another in the thigh. He gave a shriek and fell from the saddle of his bucking pinto.
Beside Gibbon, two of Thornberg’s riders went down in the hail of bullets flung by Magnusson’s crew. The other jumped off the porch and ducked behind a watering trough and commenced firing.
Thornberg and the rest of his men were opening up across the street, dislodging several of Magnusson’s men from their saddles and scattering the others in a thunder of clomping hooves and high-pitched whinnies.
Gibbon had just taken down another man when Magnusson, who’d pinned Thornberg behind a hay wagon, swung back around and emptied his carbine at Gibbon.
The sheriff, who’d dropped to one knee behind the
hitch rack, felt one of the slugs tear meat from his side, just above his belt, but he kept firing until the hammer of his Winchester clicked. He dropped the carbine and ran back into the saloon, clumsily pulling his revolver from the holster beneath his coat.
A cat-like moan sounded behind him. Swinging a look, he saw Asa Mueller curled up under a table with his arms over his head.
“Just stay there ’til I tell you to come out, Asa,” Gibbon said.
With the gun in his hand, he stepped up to the window and was about to cut loose when he saw that the street had cleared and most of the shooting was now happening between and behind the buildings across the street. Two horses and six of Magnusson’s riders lay dead. The three men that had followed Gibbon onto the porch were dead as well, spilling blood on the boardwalk. There was no sign of Thornberg.
Magnusson was retreating up the boardwalk on the other side of the street, stumbling and clutching his shoulder. Gibbon yelled, “The fight’s back here, Magnusson!” and snapped off an errant round.
The rancher stopped, pressed his back to the livery barn, and squeezed off a feeble shot. Then he pushed himself away from the barn and ran up the street, toward his horse that stood twitching its ears at the gunfire.
Gibbon ran after him, keeping to his side of the street. He stopped when Magnusson tried to mount the jittery Arabian, and fired two shots in the air over the horse’s head. The horse bucked and ran kicking down the street.
Magnusson tried to hold on, but his left foot slipped from the stirrup and he landed in a pile, cursing and raging at the disobedient mount.
Gibbon walked up behind him as Magnusson tried to gain his feet. “Stay down there,” Gibbon said. “Throw down your weapon and hold your hands above your head.” He noted that the gunfire was dying away behind him and he wondered vaguely if anyone was still alive.
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