Rebel Justice

by Robert Gosnell

CHAPTER FIVE

  Hot Lead and a Cold Reception

  It felt good to be astride the bay again, thundering across the prairie with the dry desert wind in his face. The riding did cause his shoulder wound to throb some, but he was alive with anticipation that quickly put the pain from his mind. There were still a couple of hours of daylight left. It should give him plenty of time, he figured, to have a look at the ranch before darkness gave him the cover he needed.

  He reflected on the past few hours, and his preparation. Having retrieved his horse and belongings, he had checked into the "Loomis House" hotel. There, he left everything he had of value, along with a note that willed his possessions to Cassie in the event of his demise. At least, that way, she would know that he had feelings for her. If he came back alive, he would express them to her personally.

  An hour in the saddle at a gentle lope brought him in range of the Loomis spread. Wayland rode to the crest of a small rise to survey the ranch below. It was a large, sprawling place with corrals, a bunkhouse, barn and a variety of out-buildings. The main house, the centerpiece of the spread, was a big, two-story affair. It was surrounded by fence, and Wayland could see several men lounging near the bunkhouse. A couple more, armed with rifles, patrolled the perimeter of the fence. By his count, there were eight of them visible. A heavy-set Mexican woman drew water from the well, and a couple of barefoot, bronze-skinned Mexican children played with a lariat near the corral. It all looked pretty quiet, and serene.

  Wayland took stock of the surrounding landscape. The ranch sat in a large clearing, flanked on three sides by rocky, scrub-covered hills. If Wayland was careful, he figured he could get within shouting distance of the place by sticking to those hills and using darkness to mask his approach. He and walked the bay to a small hollow between two hills, and tied her off. He slipped his Winchester from the scabbard, and eased his way down through the rugged terrain, toward the ranch. Wayland moved quietly, choosing his footing carefully. When he had moved as close as he dared in daylight, he settled in to wait. For the next hour, as the sun slowly set, Wayland carefully watched the house, hoping for a glimpse of Loomis. Though he'd never seen the man before, Wayland was certain he would recognize him.

  No one came or went from the main house, though. Most of the activity occurred in front, so Wayland figured to slip in from the back, when the time came. No doubt there was a guard posted back there, out of Wayland's sight. Wayland figured he could handle him easy enough, as long as he maintained the element of surprise.

  Once the sun was gone, darkness set in fast. The sky was moonless, and only the few lanterns from around the ranch provided any outside light. However, it was the lights inside the house that interested Wayland the most. The downstairs was almost completely illuminated, but the upstairs windows were still dark. Over-and-over in his mind, Wayland traced the path he would take to the house. Each step he visualized, and imagined his body to be light and graceful, as if walking on air. It was a trick the Indians used, in preparing to stalk game. Wayland's grandfather had taught the techniques to him, and many times, they were able to creep up on deer and game hens, nearly close enough to touch them. It was a rare moment that Wayland reflected on any member of his family. Now, it seemed proper, since he was about to kill the man who had murdered them.

  Wayland had been in a yankee prison camp, when Sherman launched his march on Atlanta. The orders were to confiscate all food and burn the fields and houses in their path. Nothing was said about killing innocent civilians. That was a task Colonel Loomis had taken on his own. The Brice farm was hardly a threat to the Union victory. Just a small, family run spread. They owned no slaves. Wayland's grandfather had, himself, been an indentured servant in Europe, and wouldn't allow it. In the end, it made no difference.

  Wayland could see in his mind's eye the row of graves behind the burnt ruins of his home. Now, he was prepared to render justice. Rebel justice. The painful memory urged Wayland into action. It was time. It took several agonizing minutes for him to reach the base of the hill. There was a stretch of open land, thirty yards or so to the fence , and another twenty to the house itself. Wayland paused at the base of the rocks, his eyes groping in the darkness for the movement of the guard he knew was there. The man showed himself within seconds, circling from one side of the house. He carried his rifle slung casually over one arm, and appeared bored.

  Wayland guessed that few men had posed any serious threat to Loomis. Likely the guards were just there for effect, or maybe for Wayland's benefit. The guard disappeared around the house. In a minute or so, Wayland knew he'd be back. Wayland sprinted across the open area, dived to the ground and rolled under the bottom strand of barbed-wire. He scurried to the back of the house,and flattened himself against the building, at the corner. Then, he slid his pistol from the holster. He held the gun by the barrel, and raised it. No sooner had he done so, than the guard appeared from around the corner, and presented an easy target for Wayland, who slammed the gun-butt into the back of the man's head. Wayland caught him as he sagged to the ground. He moved quickly to strip him of his guns, then knelt to tie the man's hands.

  Then, suddenly, more footsteps! They were quick, and light as they approached from around the building. Wayland was still on his knees beside the unconscious guard, and was caught by surprise at the sudden intrusion. He grabbed his pistol, and thumbed back the hammer, just as a small, tow-haired Mexican boy came running around the corner!

  Wayland drew a sharp breath, horrified that he had nearly shot the boy, who now stood frozen, his eyes wide in fright. Wayland gently raised a hand to him, urging him to stay quiet. But, the boy spun and ran, shouting in alarm!

  Wayland cursed to himself, and sprinted for the fence. As he dived under the wire, he could hear voices, and footsteps pounding the ground around the house. Shouts went up, and gunshots cracked through the darkness. Wayland rolled under the wire, with bullets kicking the dirt around him. He spun toward the house, laying on his belly, and sent several rounds from his Winchester toward them.

  The silhouettes in the darkness scattered and dived in every direction. There was a howl of pain from one man, as Wayland's bullet found its mark. Wayland didn't stay around to see any more. He charged at a dead run for the cover of the rocks, as the men regrouped behind him. Wayland reached the hill, and scrambled up the rugged slope, his legs pumping madly. Below, more men had joined the chase. Lanterns were coming out, and horses were being quickly saddled. They meant to mount a concerted effort to take him, he knew. If he could make it to the bay, though, he'd have a jump on them.

  Wayland clawed his way up the rough, sloping hill. His chest heaved for air, and he damned his weakened condition for slowing him down. He paused for a second to take a glance back toward the ranch. Riders were mounting horses, and a group of men on foot, aided by lantern light, were crossing the flat stretch to the hill.

  "Too far behind," Wayland thought. "They'll never catch me!"

  It took only a precious few seconds to reach the crest of the hill, but it felt like an eternity. Wayland sprinted over the ridge, and stumbled down the hill to the small valley where he had left his horse. He charged blindly for the horse...and discovered a guard, holding the reins of the bay in one hand. In the other, he had a pistol, with Wayland dead in his sights!

  "Drop it, mister!" he commanded. The man was tense, and Wayland felt the edge of uncertainty in his voice. Obviously not one of Loomis' hard core killers.

  Wayland dropped the rifle. From behind, he heard the urgent voices and movements of the approaching mob. They would be here in seconds, and the odds would be insurmountable. It had to be now.

  "The pistol. Shuck it!" the guard ordered.

  Instead, Wayland suddenly dived to one side, looking for cover. The guard shot at Wayland's first motion, and the bullet screamed by Wayland's ear. The guard frantically readied to get off another shot, but Wayland's bay, as though sensing the need, suddenly reared. It jerked the man sideways, throwing the shot wild, as Waylan
d's Colt roared. Two slugs, dead center, killed the man.

  Wayland sprinted for the bay, just as the group of men reached the crest of the hill behind him. Shots boomed, as Wayland leaped into the saddle, and spurred the bay forward. She responded instantly, and stretched herself in long, powerful strides. The bullets plinked and whined around them as they thundered through the darkness, putting distance between them and the footbound gunmen. But, there were still the horsemen to contend with. Two of them appeared from a nearby hillside and angled to cut them off. Wayland turned the bay away from them, leaned low over her neck, and let her have free reign. It was up to her, now.

  The chasing riders were astride bigger, longer legged horses, and closed the gap to nearly within shooting distance, early on. But the bay had heart, and stamina. Soon, she widened the distance between them and eventually, the pursuers dropped off and gave up.

  When he was sure the chase was finished, Wayland pulled up the bay and got off. He checked her for bullet wounds, but found nothing. He walked her for a ways to allow her a well deserved rest. As he walked, he grimly realized that he had prepared himself to die, tonight, but was mighty glad to still be among the living.

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