“Perhaps he’s dead.”
“That breed dies hard, Yank. I reckon we’d better figure that Monk is still breathin’.”
Benedict nodded in agreement. Rangle’s ex-lieutenant was a hard man to kill.
The boat was beginning to slow now, weighted down by the water that lay over a foot deep. The two scanned the right bank and the way ahead; then, rounding the next curve, they saw the steep cliffs fall away and the country opened up. A half mile ahead on the right side of the river, they saw the ruins of an old pier, and, beyond it, an adobe wall.
“That must be the mission the lumberjacks told us about, Johnny Reb,” Benedict said. “Perhaps that—” He broke off suddenly when he glimpsed the tall prow of a keel boat beyond the pier. “That must be Rangle, Brazos!” He seized the tiller and jerked hard. “We’re going ashore!”
The boat swung about, then they hit the bank with a soft thump. Rifle in hand, Brazos climbed out first, then he helped the girl out. Chalkey and Bullpup scrambled clear and Benedict hefted his rifle and followed. From here the steep fall of the land cut them off from the sight of anyone in the mission. It was quiet as they climbed onto a low shelf of rock. They stood in silence, letting themselves get accustomed to the feel of solid ground beneath their feet as they checked their weapons. They’d wrapped rifles and six-guns in a sheet of canvas they’d found in the boat, and though the weapons were damp, Benedict and Brazos could tell they hadn’t been wet sufficiently to affect the cartridges.
Benedict lifted his head and scanned the climbing terrain. He pointed to animal spoor leading up through the scrubby trees and boulders a short distance to their left.
“We’ll climb up there and work our way across that ridge. We should be able to see the mission from—”
The sound of a shot breached the quiet, followed by two more in quick succession.
“That’s comin’ from the mission!” Hank Brazos breathed as the guns fell silent. And he led the way up the animal track at a run.
Chapter Eleven
A Gathering Storm
Brady Monk hurled his powerful body headlong down the steep slope as the sound of the shot crashed from below. Pain seared through him when he landed on his wounded shoulder. He rolled, crashed against a canting blue shelf of stone, then angled his six-gun down and fired twice at the nest of boulders from where the shot had erupted.
The sound of the shots lifted in welling waves of sound against the steep, boulder-strewn slope on the east side of the basin and rolled out over the mission buildings. Breath tearing in his lungs and every inch of him aching, Monk waited.
Silence.
“Rangle, you bastard!”
Monk’s voice echoed and died. Below him, the cornfield and the mission drowsed in the sunlight.
“Rangle!”
Still no answer. Monk rolled onto his back and stared at the sky. His brain felt dull. The past hour was a blurred recollection of raging water, of terror, of incredible forces battering the boat and his body on the nightmare ride down Lizard River.
He could only dimly recall clambering from his smashed boat and the climb over the ridges. He had just sighted the keel boat drawn up at the old jetty when the first bullet fanned his whiskers. Rangle was down there, more dangerous than any river. Monk’s cruel mouth twisted. Rangle and Ruby ...
He shook his head violently and the fogs of exhaustion began to lift. Dumping spent shells from his Colt, he replaced them from his belt, then rolled onto his elbows.
“Let’s talk, Bo!” he shouted. “We’ve got to make a deal and make it quick, otherwise neither of us is gonna get the gold.” He waited for a reply, and when none came he called again. “It’s here, ain’t it, Bo? That two hundred grand I helped you get. Our dinero!”
A hundred yards below, sprawled in the nest of rocks with rustling wheat fanning in the breeze behind him, Bo Rangle breathed slowly, his green eyes unnaturally bright. The girl lay at his side on her back, one arm across her eyes, exhausted by the most terrifying hour of her life.
But Bo Rangle wasn’t tired. There was in him a deep well of stamina that nothing seemed capable of exhausting. He lay resting, soaking up the sun, waiting, ready to kill ...
He had been lucky, he told himself, if he hadn’t heard that shot from the timber camp as he started down through the rapids, he would have gone straight to his cache on his arrival at the mission and started digging. Monk would have caught him unawares and most likely killed him. Then Monk would have had the gold. But that shot had warned him of trouble at the camp, and as soon as he reached the mission, he had taken up his defensive position on the east side of the basin. There had been no guarantee that that single shot meant he was being pursued, but he’d been prepared to wait an hour or two to make sure. As he had lain there, waiting, he’d been thinking of Benedict and Brazos. If anybody made it, they would. He’d been surprised when he’d seen the blocky figure of Brady Monk come snaking over the ridge. Surprised and a little relieved. Brady was a tough customer, but he would much rather tangle with him than that gunfighter dude and the giant Texan ...
Rangle looked up at the sky. Ten minutes had passed since Monk had called out last. He knew that Brady was waiting for him to make a move. Well, he’d have a long damned wait. Rangle felt he could outlast Monk at anything. He knew his former segundo well. Brady was an impatient man. Sooner or later Monk would grow weary of the game and make some kind of a play. When he did, Rangle would be ready. He had one big advantage. Monk didn’t want to kill him because that would keep him from getting his hands on the gold. Brady would be shooting to wound, but he would be shooting to kill.
“Rangle!”
Bo Rangle smiled wolfishly, but suddenly the smile froze. That hadn’t been Monk’s voice—and the shout had come from higher up.
“Rangle!” the voice called again.
Disbelief contorted the killer’s face as his gaze lifted to the ridge crest. He knew that voice. It belonged to Duke Benedict!
There was a sudden burst of movement from Brady Monk’s position. Wild-eyed, gun in hand, the killer burst from cover and went running towards the cornfield. Dust surged up from Monk’s flying boots as Rangle triggered.
Monk threw himself into a headlong dive as the slug ripped through his left hand. The killer rolled and Rangle’s finger tightened on the trigger again; but, before he could shoot, a slug screamed from stone inches from his face. Benedict’s bullet ricocheted, sliced a jagged furrow across Rangle’s muscular back, then whipped venomously through the yellow stalks behind him.
“Bo!” Ruby Ballard screamed. “What—?”
She broke off. Rangle was already up and running, his face inhuman in his fury and pain.
“Bo!” Ruby screamed. “Bo, wait for me!”
Brazos knocked Benedict’s gun arm down as Benedict made to fire again.
“Hold it, Yank, that’s a girl!”
Benedict expelled a pent-up breath and watched the slender, dark-headed figure vanish in Rangle’s wake. He looked to the right. Monk was gone. Cornstalks stirred deep in the field. Benedict lifted the rifle again and fired twice. Brazos’ Winchester joined in and the cornstalks went still.
They waited. Slow minutes ticked by, then Brazos finally stirred.
“Well, I guess there’s only one thing for it, Yank.”
“Flush them out?”
“Correct.”
They stared at each other, both aware that this was the final hour. In their long, silent look was an understanding that comes only to men who’ve shared great dangers and hardships. In that moment, they were closer than they had ever been. In this wild place, under this pallid autumn sun, they had come to the trail’s end.
Then the moment was past and they were bellying back from the rock cover.
“We’ll go down over yonder,” Brazos grunted, pointing to the right where boulders dotted the slope. “We’ll have good cover to the cornfield.” He turned his head to look at Chalker whose teeth were chattering like castanets an
d he said, “You don’t have to go down with—” He broke off. “Where’s Tara?”
Chalker blinked. “Hell, she was here a minute back.”
Brazos swore softly when he saw the girl’s footprints angling away to the right. His face was pale as he turned to Benedict. “She’s gone down there, Yank. What a fool thing to do!”
“Not when you hate like she does, Johnny Reb,” Benedict said, tight-lipped. “Let’s go.”
“Hold on,” Peter the Great called. “I’m comin’ with you.”
“No, mister,” Benedict said. But his tone was almost gentle as he added, “This is no job for you, Peter.”
However, Chalkey’s tiny face was set in determined lines. “Never shirked a showdown in my life, never backed away from a fight, never even knew what it was like to—”
“To run out of words,” Brazos finished for him. “All right, Peter, you can come. But stick close.” The big man dropped to one knee and rubbed Bullpup’s scarred head. “This is it, old-timer, this is the one that counts. And we’re gonna need them sharp ears and nose of yours down there, so don’t get takin’ off after gophers. Compre?”
Looking like he understood, Bullpup growled and licked Brazos’ big hand as Benedict led the way across the ridge.
“Bo?”
Ruby Ballard’s plaintive call was thin with fear. All around her the tall cornstalks stood silent, filtering the weak sunlight. She turned her head. “Bo? Where are you, Bo?”
She moved on slowly, then halted. What was that? Had she heard a soft rustle of movement off to the left?
“Bo?”
No answer.
Her legs were trembling as she forced herself to move in the direction of the sound. Perspiration ran down her face and neck and into the deep cleft between her breasts. Her hands shook and her eyes were stretched wide in dark pools of terror. Why had Bo left her like this? Didn’t he even care?
Suddenly her heart skipped a beat. A figure was rising from the corn ahead. She saw huge shoulders and a broad-boned, savage face that ornamented a thousand truebills.
Brady Monk!
Monk’s smile was a frightening thing to see as he came forward, big boots making no sound.
“Hiya, Ruby. Did he run out on you ... again?”
“Brady?” She tried to smile. “Brady, I—I didn’t want to do it. Bo made me. You know how he’s always terrified me …”
Monk’s smile broadened as he reached her. A bloody hand lifted to touch her pale cheek.
“Sure, Ruby. Sure, baby, I understand.”
“You ... you don’t hate me?”
“How could I hate you, Ruby? I love you, just the way you love me.”
Tears burst from the girl’s eyes as she flung herself into his arms. What a fool she had been! Brady cared for her in a way that Bo Rangle never had. He loved her enough to forgive her for the terrible things she had done, and if they got away from this awful place alive, she would never leave Brady again.
And it was then, in that very moment of insight as she lifted her face to his, that she felt the iron muzzle of the gun press against her stomach. She froze. Then she saw the smile fade from his face.
“Brady—”
The gun exploded with a muffled roar and she fell, spinning into darkness. The last sound she heard was Brady Monk’s farewell.
“Judas bitch!”
Bo Rangle snaked towards the sound of the shot, lips skinned back from powerful teeth, gleaming blue Colt making a path through the cornstalks. That shot had been close. He paused when he came to a clearing in the corn where wild pigs had formed a nest. Something was moving. He caught a flash of color, the glint of sunlight on metal.
He fired.
The figure vanished, but he had heard Brady Monk’s cry of pain as his slug drove home. Rangle lunged from cover and started across the clearing, fanning his gun hammer and driving a hail of lead into the corn. Rangle tripped on a broken cornstalk, regained his balance, took one long stride, then was punched forward by a mighty blow in the back.
For a moment he refused to believe he’d been hit. Then pain surged through his shoulder and a second bullet fanned his cheek. Fifteen feet across the clearing, golden hair gleaming in the sunlight, was Tara Killane. She held a rifle.
Rangle pulled trigger. The girl staggered, her face white with the shock of the impact. Then she fired the rifle again and Rangle’s Colt thundered back. Tara curved slowly towards the earth and his gun followed her down until the hammer hit an empty shell.
He got to his knees, staring across at her. Blood pumped from his shoulder and ran in rivulets down his side. There were the sounds of running feet off to his right. He drew his second gun and cut loose at dim shapes. A man cried out in pain, he heard the crash of a falling body, then he saw the cold, handsome face of Duke Benedict before Benedict’s Colt roared and pain tore through Rangle’s ribs. Rangle gasped and threw himself back as lead hornets snarled all around him. On his feet, he plunged wildly through the corn until he burst into the clearing close to the mission. He was hit and hit hard. He had to run ... run or die ...
He staggered around the corner of the mission, heading for the river. The boat was his only chance.
But the boat wasn’t there.
Staggering to a halt, he stared dumbly at the empty jetty, refusing to believe the testimony of his own eyes. Then he ran along the length of the wall. Reaching the front, he saw the keel boat in midstream with Brady Monk slumped over the tiller.
“Brady!”
The wounded Monk stirred and Rangle saw his gun come up. He flung himself to the side as the shot rang out. When he lifted his head, the boat was rushing swiftly out of gun range. Leaving a bloody trail behind him, Bo Rangle staggered through the great door, trotted across the courtyard and took the steps that led to the wall.
“Take it easy, little feller,” Brazos said gently. “You’ll be all right.”
Lying on his back, his narrow chest soaked with crimson, Peter the Great shook his head. “Best at everythin’,” he panted. “Best at fightin’, best at lovin’, best at—”
Then a shudder went through the tiny body and Peter was still.
“Best at dyin’,” Hank Brazos finished for him, and closed the little man’s staring eyes.
Brazos rose, picked up his rifle and walked towards Benedict who was standing tall and motionless by the dead girl. Benedict turned his head and Brazos nodded.
“He’s gone.”
Benedict lifted his chin and looked across at the rooftops of the mission. “Rangle’s over there, at the rear wall.” His voice sounded empty, hollow.
Brazos stared down at Tara Killane and sighed. Then he slapped the stock of his rifle savagely. “Let’s get it over with!”
Chapter Twelve
Come Bury the Dead
Hot lead stitched across the pocked face of the wall towards Rangle’s gun port. The killer ducked and two slugs whistled through the port to smack hard against the wall across the courtyard. When the gun fell silent, Rangle bobbed up and slammed a shot at the cornfield where blue tendrils of gun smoke drifted in the still air.
Two guns replied with a crashing crescendo, then the giant figure of Brazos broke from cover, sprinting for the northeast corner. Rangle leaped up as Benedict’s cover fire homed in on the gun port. The killer’s head and shoulders appeared above the wall and his twin guns churned. Dust puffed near Brazos’ right leg and the Texan went down. Rangle triggered again, then ducked as Benedict’s Colts powdered the crown of the wall. Flinging himself back to the gun port, Rangle glimpsed the Texan’s limping figure disappearing around the corner.
Like a big cat, Rangle jumped down into the courtyard. He couldn’t even feel the wounds in his ribs and shoulder any more as he sprinted for the chapel. The iron constitution that had carried the day for him countless times in the past had shrugged off the effects of the wounds, had in fact seemed to heighten his alertness. His brain felt crystal clear and he was conscious of the enormous power and wei
ght of his body. In the half-minute he’d waited for them to come to him, he had become the thing he’d been shaping into all his life: a pure killer.
It was cool and gloomy in the chapel as he snaked through to the altar. He bobbed behind the old marble and waited. Long minutes passed. He heard the whisper of voices outside. The plaster faces of long-dead saints and martyrs stared down at him and dust motes trembled in the shafts of light streaming through the west windows. A solid wall was at his back. The only way they could come was through the door ...
He was right, but when they showed at the door, they didn’t come furtively, crouching and sniping as he’d expected. They came through together, at a dead run, behind bucking, blazing Colts that filled the chapel with their thunder. They came shoulder to shoulder, a towering Texan in a faded purple shirt and a tall man in somber black. It was a sight to chill even the murderous heart of Bo Rangle.
Rangle fired, but the sheer stunning shock of that reckless charge and the screaming bullets ricocheting around the curved altar affected his aim. His bullet scored Benedict’s neck, but now that Rangle had revealed his position, the storming Colts weren’t spraying wildly any more.
Benedict and Brazos rushed on ... as if they truly believed that God Almighty was on their side. They came through wreathing gun smoke with flame spitting from their fists.
Rangle’s gun churned again but his aim was wild. He wondered what the strange sensation in his belly was, then he realized that it had to be fear. He’d never known fear in all his murderous life ...
“No!” he shouted, and the fear was drowned. He lunged to his feet and his gun roared. Benedict staggered but Brazos’ Peacemaker bucked twice and Bo Rangle was smashed back against the wall. He tried to lift the gun but it weighed a ton. “Hold!” he cried as they came lunging up the steps. His lips stretched in a ghastly grin. “You ... you can’t kill me. The gold! You forgettin’ the gold?”
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