The wrangler started in on that, and Willa and Harmon moved quickly into the barn, where the horses were stirring, their neighs and whinnies as hysterical as their wild-eyed faces. They calmed the animals as best they could, and she and the cook swiftly began a one-at-a-time exodus. Morgan joined in a few minutes later, and the barn indeed did start to burn, but the last animal was conveyed out of there before the whole place and all the hay in it went up with a bellow like a wounded beast behind them. The bigger size of the structure, easily three times what the bunkhouse had been, illuminated the world of carnage around them—black corpses, bloodied corpses—making a terrible day out of what had begun a gentle night.
For one endless moment, the three survivors stood there facing the burning barn with their pale flesh echoing by way of flickery reflections the blaze before them.
“More to do,” she told the two men.
Next the mistress of the ranch and her two remaining hands gathered the milling horses from which the dead invaders had fallen. Some of the raiders’ animals had run off into the dark, but the rest—half a dozen—the trio rounded up and put in the corral, saddles and all.
Over by the house, Morgan’s pile of weapons—handguns and rifles—was an impressive reminder of the extent of the onslaught. That the three of them had survived it seemed a small miracle. Maybe not so small. But the truth was even Harmon had held his own and both Willa and Morgan were damn good shots.
And men on horseback, however used to battle or gunplay a steed might be, were subject to controlling the animal conveying them, and had reins to deal with as well as weapons. No easy task.
Willa gathered her troops—both of them, the fat cook and the old cowboy.
“Let’s haul their dead over there,” she said, pointing to where black human timbers lay smoking, some still sizzling. “We’ll want to keep the area around the corral clear.”
Harmon looked a little queasy at the suggestion, which of course was not a suggestion at all, but an order. Morgan didn’t mind. He’d fought Rebs and Indians in his day. So they went around taking the dead men by the wrists and dragging them like bags of seed that fell off a wagon.
Willa paused in her work only twice. First, to look with a certain sadness at the boy in buckskin. No, not a boy—probably going on thirty, but pale and soft and with hands that had never seen a day of real work. She could hardly have hated Victoria Hammond more, yet she still felt a brief pang of pity for the woman, losing a second son in a few days, and again to violence.
But just a pang. And brief.
As for taking this young man’s life, Willa felt nothing much—certainly not guilt, only a sadness that the Hammond offspring had been subjected to an upbringing by such a monstrous mother, who had set him on a path that had led him here, to lie dead on the ground among the charred remains and bullet-ridden bodies of others who had died in service of a woman seeking wealth and power.
The second time she paused was to kneel next to the dead Bill Jackson and pray for his soul. Before she stood, she kissed his forehead. This man shot and killed, that was a loss. You could rebuild a barn or a bunkhouse, but a dead man was gone forever.
She was surprised to discover that, among the fallen, no Indian lay. Nor had she seen one among the fleeing raiders. Not the Chiricahua Kid nor any other. She’d felt certain those flaming arrows were the work of that hostile brave, corrupted by white men. Unless some veteran of the Indian wars had picked up the skill needed to craft and dispatch those fiery missiles. But she doubted it.
Again, the hoarse howl of flames, interspersed with snaps and an insistent crackling, muted the sound of others approaching. Morgan noticed it first and came over and pointed out the buckboard coming down the lane, two men in the seat. They seemed in no hurry.
“Recognize them?” she asked the old wrangler.
“Can’t say I do. Must be somebody saw the fire and smoke in the sky, and come to see if we need help.”
The driver slowed and both men offered mild smiles and nodded at Willa and Morgan, who were out in the midst of the hard-dirt area between burning buildings and the ranch house and corral. The driver had a mustache that overwhelmed his face and looked to be forty at least, while the rider was a good ten years younger, also mustached but not so full, kind of dumb looking, with close-set eyes hugging his nose.
“My lord,” the driver said, frowning around at the grisly scene, “this here is more than just a damn fire. What happened, anyways?”
Willa said, “Raiders from a rival ranch hit us.”
“Hell you say. You need any help?”
“No, we’ll be riding into town for that.”
The rider said, “Maybe we could help carry buckets over from the water tower, and try to put out that blaze ’fore it claims any other buildings.”
“Not enough water in that tower,” she said, “to give my flower garden a drink. No, but we appreciate your offer.”
“Okay, then,” the driver said. “I’ll just turn this buggy around.”
The heavily mustached driver guided the two horses hauling the four-wheeled wagon into a half circle, but then paused. A tarp covering something in the back—no, not something, someone—got flipped aside and a figure rose to what seemed a towering height . . . a woman in black with blazing black eyes and a wild mane of ebony hair and a .45 in a gloved fist.
Victoria Hammond shot Willa and the bullet tore through Willa’s upper chest at her right shoulder like a searing hot lance had gone through her. She fell to her knees as the Hammond woman fired again, but missed, only Willa dropped onto her left side, perhaps giving the shooter the sense that the second bullet had hit.
Harmon had set his shotgun against the corral fence and he was scrambling for it when Victoria shot him in the back of the head. Morgan had leaned his Winchester against the side of the house, and he ran for it, but Victoria picked him off like a bird on the fly, grinning as she did.
Willa saw this, although later she wondered if she only thought she saw it, that maybe she had conjured a memory of the shootings from what she’d heard, and only imagined seeing such a beautiful face twisted into so ugly an evil mask.
After that, she really did only hear things.
Victoria saying, “Gather him.”
In a strangely gentle voice.
The two men climbing down from the buckboard.
“Put him in back with me,” she said. “Gentle. Gentle.”
Oh, Willa thought. She’s collecting her son.
That must have distracted the grieving mother, kept her from doing what Willa knew the woman should have done, which was put a bullet in her fallen rival’s head.
But then the buckboard rattled off, again in no hurry, and the noisy hell of the burning barn was the only thing that kept Willa approaching a state of wakefulness.
Still, it took time for her to even think about getting up, though she was never sure how long she lay there. Numbness had set right in, around the wound, fore and aft. The bullet seemed to have gone straight through her, not hitting any bone, not careening around, tearing things up in her. Then the burning sensation started, and it may have helped keep her from passing out.
Finally she managed to get to her feet, as if reassembling herself from scattered parts, and stumbled over to the corral, and through the gate, where she took the first saddled horse she came to and somehow, somehow, got herself up and on.
She eased the horse out of the corral. Stopped and looked at her fallen comrades—skinny old Morgan, no man better with a horse . . . plump old Harmon, best cookie any ranch ever knew. She swallowed hard, with no sense of the tears streaking down her soot-covered face.
Then she rode back to town. At a steady pace, holding on to the reins, working every second of the way to keep her balance and stay awake and not fall off and die on the road before she could get to town.
To town and Caleb York.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
For a Saturday night, business was slow at the Victory Saloon, with no
sign of the usual payday bustle. Satin-and-silk gals just sitting around, piano player entertaining himself. Chuck-a-luck and roulette with nary a taker. Only a few dusty cowhands slaking their thirst, outnumbered for once by Hub Wainwright and his quartet of white-shirt, bow-tie bartenders behind the interminable, superbly polished oak bar. Seemed all the Bar-O and Circle G hands were otherwise occupied tonight.
Caleb York, both his badges tucked away in his black frock coat’s breast pocket, was having a hair of the dog—but just a hair—as he sat at the round, green-felt-topped table with four City Council members. He had, since strolling in an hour ago, been systematically taking back the money he’d lately lost to them.
And he didn’t even seem to be thinking about his cards, just playing automatically if with his usual skill. This annoyed and frustrated the council members, who tried to strike back by playing more aggressively . . . and right into his (poker) hands.
In fact, York really wasn’t thinking about his cards. Coming back to town, he’d caught up with Tulley, who was about to start his night rounds, and told the deputy that trouble was coming. That tomorrow morning the sheriff would be riding to Las Vegas, to hire on a posse of hard cases, and Tulley would be on his own for much of the day. No time for napping.
“Cut back on your rounds tonight,” York had advised him, “if need be.”
“It’s come to shootin’?” Tully had asked.
“It will soon enough.”
York was mulling what strategy he’d use with the posse of hired guns who’d be riding with him—return to the east bank of the creek? Perhaps divide into two groups and ride into the ranch house grounds even as the other group took the shore? No, that would create a crossfire.
As he absently hauled in chips, and the mayor and other merchants traded discouraged expressions, he explored his options. He won another pot as two men burst through the batwings and into the Victory, took off their hats, and strode over to position themselves beside him, in a supplicating manner. They looked glum. Both had blood on their shirts.
York recognized them as Willa’s men, two of the Vegas gunfighters she’d brought on: Frank Duffy and Buck O’Fallon. Their reputations, while not spotless, were certainly more nearly shining than the ruthless man-killers hired by Victoria Hammond.
Tall, broad shouldered, black haired, with a tanned, weathered look about him, Duffy said, “Sheriff, you best come with us. Miss Cullen has been shot.”
York was on his feet at once, and the City Council members looked stunned, alarmed, as well they should. He said, “Not . . . ?”
“Not killed, but bad wounded.”
Former lawman O’Fallon, smallish, with an educated manner, slim where his companion was sinewy, hung on to his broad-brimmed hat with both hands. “Flaming arrows, probably the Chiricahua Kid’s doing, set the bunkhouse afire. Then the Hammond crew rode in and started shooting everybody as they came out.”
Duffy said, “There was complete mayhem ensued. Every hand shot and killed. Barn burned down. House is standing—that’s about all’s left.”
“Where is Willa now?”
“Doc Miller’s. Your deputy helped us take her there.”
York practically ran out of the Victory, slamming on his hat, brushing past Rita, who’d overheard all of it, aghast. He got more details on the way.
Seemed the two gunhands had been surreptitiously stationed in the scrubby woods near Sugar Creek, keeping an eye on the shoreline and the men keeping guard at two small campfires there. Then, in the direction of the Bar-O, they saw smoke rising into the night against a blush of orange-yellow that was something other than dawn coming way early.
They had left their post and gone back to the main road and ridden toward the ranch only to encounter a nearly unconscious Willa Cullen, riding toward town, wounded, struggling not to fall off her horse.
Light glowed in the windows of Miller’s surgery on the second floor of the bank building. With the two Bar-O hirelings trailing him, York went quickly up the exterior steps hugging the side brick wall to the little landing and went into the waiting room.
Tulley was pacing like an expectant father. He stopped in place when York and the two others burst in.
“That witch shot her, Caleb York! Shot that sweet gal!” The deputy pointed to the place on himself.
“Is she conscious?”
It was Miller who answered, coming out of the surgery: “She’s in and out.”
The doctor was in the rolled-up sleeves of a bloody shirt, rubbing his hands with an alcohol-soaked cloth.
York faced him. “She going to pull through?”
Miller’s shrug made no commitment. “Too early. She’s lost blood. I can give her a saline solution as a blood substitute—that can be effective at times.”
“At times?”
Another shrug. “Best option I have. It’s more successful than the goat milk transfusions we used to give. She’s a tough little gal.” He bobbed his head back toward his small adjacent surgery. “She heard your voice out here. Wants to speak to you, Caleb. I’ve given her a sedative that will kick in soon, so you should go in now.”
He did.
She lay on her back on the mahogany examination table looking pretty despite the circumstances, but pale as death. The table was heavy, good size, covered in crisp white paper. Her green-and-black shirt had been flung to the floor, her camisole cut away to allow application of a bandage, the gauze stained red.
Her blue eyes were half-lidded, but she smiled, seeing him, when he leaned in over her, taking her near hand.
“Caleb,” she said. “Caleb . . .”
He summoned a reassuring smile. “The doc will take good care of you. You just rest.”
Her eyes managed to open a little wider. “That woman. . . she and two of her . . . crew. Came in after . . . after her raiders had gone. Must’ve cut their number in half. She did this, Caleb. Shot me.”
He gently squeezed the hand. “You just rest. I’ll take care of it. Doc’ll take care of you.”
The eyes were even wider now. “Caleb . . . watch out for her. She’s . . . crazed.”
“I’ll watch out. You rest.”
“I set her off!”
“Quiet now . . . I’m going. . . .”
“I killed her boy.”
“What?”
She swallowed. “Pierce Hammond . . . he killed Jackson. Bill Jackson. And I shot him for it.”
And Victoria had shot Willa for that.
Some women wanted sweet talk, especially at a time like this.
But York told her what he knew she’d want to hear: “I’ll make her pay. I’ll make them all pay.”
* * *
Back in the jailhouse office, York conferred with the two Bar-O gunmen and his deputy. The sheriff sat behind his desk, methodically filling every empty loop on his cartridge belt with a .44 bullet. When he was finished, he stood and slung the gun belt on. Buckled it.
“If I were in a mood to wait till morning,” York said, “I could ride to Las Vegas and gather a posse with this.”
He reached in his inside frock coat pocket and withdrew the lump of brownbacks. He tossed the fold of cash onto the desk, where it made a satisfying thump. The two hired guns looked at the wad of money the way starving men look at their first meal in a long time. Tulley, on the other hand, regarded it like a pile of paper.
“Or,” York said, flipping a hand, “we could handle this tonight. Two-way split.”
Tulley had done the ciphering. “They is four of us, Caleb York.”
“This is not a matter of money to me,” York said to them all. Then to Tulley: “Anyway, Deputy, you and I are already being paid by the county.”
“That be a fact,” Tulley admitted.
Duffy was still staring at the loot, but O’Fallon’s gaze had settled on York. “Handle it tonight how?”
“Take them on,” the sheriff said calmly. “Right now. When they least expect it.”
O’Fallon’s eyes were narrow in thou
ght. “How many of the Circle G bunch are left?”
York shook his head. “No idea. But they took heavy losses, Willa said.”
“Said the same to us,” Duffy said, finally looking up from the cash. “Where you figure they’ll be?”
York said, “Could be in their own bunkhouse.”
“Oughta burn it,” Duffy said sourly.
O’Fallon said, “If they’ve bedded down, watchdogs’ll be posted.”
“Or maybe,” York offered, “they’re strung along the crick bank. Waiting for retaliation.”
The former lawman shook his head, smirked skeptically. “What for? Not much chance of Bar-O boys or cattle trying to cross tonight. Don’t know if any of the Bar-O outfit is even still breathing, but us.”
York’s shrug seemed easy, but it was calculated. “Might be down there celebrating. Big night for ’em, y’know. And I don’t imagine Victoria Hammond invites the boys in for parties much.”
O’Fallon’s gaze remained steady. “You sound like you have something in mind, York.”
“I do.”
“Wal,” Tulley said, “nothin’ much brewin’ in town. Might as well go somewheres and beat the boredom.”
No one said anything. Tulley smiled at York. York smiled back, though not as wide. The other two just looked at that money.
Finally O’Fallon said, “I’m game.”
“Me too,” Duffy said, and reached for the wad of cash.
But York plucked it away and pocketed it. “We’ll settle up after. If they kill me, you know where to find it.”
Duffy said, “What if we kill you?”
“What good,” Tulley said, feeding shells into his shotgun, broken open over his arm, “is spendin’ money when your head is blowed off?”
As they were saddling up, a figure in a satin gown moved through the moonlight up the boardwalk, hurriedly, and the worry on Rita Filley’s face made it no less lovely.
She took York aside. “What are you preparing to do, Caleb?”
“What do you think?”
“Are you a lawman tonight, or some unholy avenger?”
“What would you have me be?”
Shoot-Out at Sugar Creek (A Caleb York Western Book 6) Page 17
