It wasn’t difficult to figure out where the bullet had been meant to go. All Jarrett needed to do was lean back to scrape his head where the post behind him had been splintered. Thanks to the darkness of the cellar and his desperate motion at the last second, the bullet intended for his skull grazed his scalp and dug into the post instead. The more he shifted, the more he was reminded of all the other injuries he’d recently collected. “Ow, son of a . . . ,” he grunted as his sore ribs made themselves known. If he was going to find out any more, he would need to get his hands free.
One benefit to the current situation was that he had plenty of blood and sweat running down his arms to make the ropes binding his hands very slick. Jarrett clenched his fists, twisted his hands, pulled his arms, and leaned forward until he hit the end of his rope. All the while, pain tore through him like a set of malicious raking claws. The scream that burst from his lungs filled his ears as if it were the only sound in the world. After one more concentrated effort, he flopped forward to pull his wrists free from the ropes that had held him back.
As soon as he could move without being so constricted, Jarrett got to work on the rest of the ropes. He reached for his ankles, feeling for knots or any other weak point that could be exploited. While his hands busily worked, his eyes grew accustomed to the narrow strips of light poking into the cellar between the slats of the door. The rumble of hooves could still be heard but were considerably more distant than they’d been before. There was also the roaring sound of blood rushing through his head like a steady current beneath everything else.
The sound of some horses that were closer than the rest, combined with a few voices from the house above, spurred Jarrett on even more until he ripped away the ropes around his ankles like so much dead moss. He started to climb to his feet but was given a sharp reminder of the wound that he’d been given as Clay’s parting gift.
Gritting his teeth against the pain, Jarrett used his right hand to feel the spot where he’d been shot. There was skin encrusted with bits of dirt and blood near the top of his head toward the back. He patted himself down, forcing himself to use the pain as fuel to his fire instead of something that would consume him.
“Thank God,” he breathed when he felt no additional wounds. It was a messy situation, but much better for him than if he still had to contend with a piece of lead stuck inside him or a head that had been cracked open like an egg.
Jarrett wasn’t a medic by any stretch, but he’d dealt with wounds worse than these. All he needed was something to use as a bandage. Allowing his left arm to hang relatively loose at his side, he reached for the front of his shirt, gripped it tight, and tore off a wide strip of cotton. A bit more of it came off than he’d anticipated, leaving his shirt a ripped mess. After wadding the shredded material he’d taken into a ball, he pressed it against his wound and held it in place.
From what he could tell, the bleeding wasn’t nearly as bad as it could have been. The wound hurt, but he’d already come to embrace pain as a crutch to keep him moving. Holding the wad of cotton in place, he forced himself to stand up. That effort, something so simple on almost any other day, took nearly everything Jarrett’s body had to offer. The hardest part was getting his wobbly legs to support his weight. From there on, it was just a matter of falling forward instead of down.
The dirt floor seemed particularly uneven as he made his way to the steps. Jarrett climbed one and then another, reaching up with a shaky hand to push the door until it fell to one side. Almost immediately, his eyes were set to watering and his lungs were filled with a thick, acrid fog. By the time he’d fully emerged from the cellar, Jarrett had pulled enough of the foul taste into his mouth to recognize its source. He turned around while taking a few more staggering steps as the full scope of what was happening made itself all too clear.
The Lazy J was burning.
Not just the house at the middle of the property, but every structure that he could see was either consumed by flames or reduced to a blackened husk. The house was directly in front of him and filled his entire field of vision with a blazing spectacle of fire licking from every window, spitting smoke in all directions. If his head had been clearer, he could have more clearly heard the roaring of flames instead of just a continuous muffled growl. Even his own cries as he shouted the names of his brother’s family were swallowed by the nightmarish haze filling his mind.
His first thought was to charge inside and make his way to the second floor. If he burned to death somewhere along the way, then so be it. At least he could live with himself for having tried, but the door was already completely blocked by flames and fallen debris. Jarrett had taken all of three steps toward the smoking outline of the entrance when the house’s roof collapsed in on itself. The sight before him was so terrible that it seemed unreal as, bit by bit, the home he’d built fell down. Some insane part of him still considered charging inside to get upstairs until the second floor ceased to be.
It was just gone.
In a rush, his hearing returned. The first thing to register in Jarrett’s mind was the groaning of lumber splitting apart and collapsing into a pile. His legs carried him backward away from the burning house as his arms came up to protect his face from the wave of heat that rolled over him. In those moments, Jarrett was certain he was experiencing the final pains of his life. Something caught his heel with a jarring impact and everything tilted to one side.
When he hit the ground, he realized he was still alive. Considering the amount of pain he was in from his wound, his burning lungs and nearly every joint in his body, that wasn’t exactly a blessing. Clenching his jaw, he rolled onto one side to climb back to his feet. No matter how much anguish was coursing through him at that moment, his instincts wouldn’t allow him to simply lie in the dirt and be swept away with the rest of the ash.
Jarrett’s next several breaths were like hot tacks scraping at him from the inside and he hacked them up amid seizures that twisted his chest and shoulders. Closing his eyes, he felt water pouring from them to stream down his face. When he cleared them using the back of one hand, Jarrett got a look at what he’d tripped over while backing away from the fire.
“Norris?” he croaked through a ragged throat. “Oh God,” Jarrett said while grabbing his fallen brother’s collar. “Norris, can you hear me?”
Norris had been almost completely covered by dirt, gravel, and blackened detritus that had blown in from the fire. The debris clung to his skin, making him look less like a man and more like just another charred lump stuck to the ground.
“Come on,” Jarrett said as he shook his brother. “Please say something. Anything at all.”
But Norris was gone. For anyone to have survived the grievous wounds Norris had in his head and chest would have required a miracle. It took several seconds for Jarrett to even acknowledge those wounds, but once he did, he knew his brother was no more. He set Norris down and looked at the burning remains of what had been.
The next building in sight was the bunkhouse. While there were plenty of flames to be found there, most of them were licking up along the roof or creeping around one corner like a demonic hand closing into a fist. Jarrett pulled himself up and started walking in that direction. Not only did it feel good to see something other than his house and dead brother, but the movements became easier with every step he took.
When he heard voices coming from within the bunkhouse, Jarrett broke into a run.
The front of the building was where the majority of the blaze was concentrated. Just stepping too close to the door was enough to make Jarrett recoil as if he’d accidentally touched the front of a stove. Not only was there a side door, but it was on a portion of the structure that had barely been touched by any of the flames.
“Stan!” Jarrett shouted. “You in there?”
“Stan’s here!” someone said from within the bunkhouse. “But he keeled over. I think the smoke got to him.”
Jarrett recogn
ized the voice as belonging to another one of his hired hands, an older fellow from Kansas named Edgar. By the sound of it, Edgar was well inside the bunkhouse, which meant he wouldn’t be hit if the side door was kicked in. Jarrett did just that so he could charge inside before the fire spread.
The interior of the bunkhouse was filled with smoke that swirled within a wide-open space. Essentially the structure was one large room with rows of cots and chests lined up along both side walls. All three of the remaining men on Jarrett’s payroll were tied to support posts near the back of the bunkhouse in a fashion similar to how he and Norris had been tied in the cellar. Their hands and feet were secured and one end of that rope kept them from getting more than a few feet from their posts. The man Jarrett had first called for was the strongest of the bunch. Unfortunately Stan was on his side and not moving.
“Thank Christ you’re here!” Edgar said. He was a slender fellow with skin that looked like old leather. Having spent almost all of his life herding cattle and doing every odd job imaginable on a ranch, he was anything but a frail old-timer. “Where’s Matt or Pete?”
“They’re gone,” Jarrett said as he approached the three men.
“They got away?”
“No.”
The flicker of hope that had showed in Edgar’s eyes was snuffed out. “Oh. I see.”
“This place is burning,” Jarrett said. “You men need to get out of here. Can you carry Stan between the two of you?”
“Sure, but ain’t you coming as well?”
Untying the knots was a lot easier when Jarrett could see them and use both hands. As soon as he got Edgar’s hands free, he shifted his attention to the third man being held prisoner there. Jack was a good worker with a strong back who never caused any trouble. Part of why he was so easy to work with was because of his even temper, but mostly it was because he was mute.
“You hurt, Jack?” Jarrett asked.
The other man shook his head.
After years of working with him, Jarrett could tell plenty about what was going through Jack’s head just by reading his expression. He didn’t need one bit of that experience to know what was happening when he saw the other man’s eyes go wide and his mouth drop open. Jarrett followed Jack’s line of sight to see movement outside the bunkhouse.
The front door had fallen halfway off and now hung by only its lower hinge. Through the thickening smoke, he spotted a figure on horseback gazing inside.
“You men reconsider my offer?” the man asked.
Jarrett didn’t recognize the voice. “What offer?” he whispered to Edgar.
The older man was almost finished untying Stan. “He wants us to come along with them rustlers to help manage the herd. Promised a real sweet payday if we accepted. We told him to go to hell and that’s when he lit the place on fire.”
“Stay here.”
Jarrett didn’t wait to see if his order would be obeyed or not. He stooped down to pick up one of the ropes that had been tied around Jack’s wrists and walked straight toward the door.
“Hey, not so fast!” Edgar said.
The man outside leaned a bit lower and shouted, “Don’t worry none. I’m not going anywhere just yet. You might want to hurry up and give the word, though, if’n you want to keep from getting real hot real quick.”
Stepping to one side, Jarrett ignored the crackling flames gnawing at a growing hole in the roof to send chunks of wood falling onto a group of cots across the aisle from him. The beds closest to the door and the ones in the very back were always the most popular among his workers. Pete’s was the bunk that Jarrett went to and he pulled open the chest near the foot of the cot. As he rooted through a mixture of clothing and other random possessions, he didn’t even think about the man who’d owned them. His mind was focused on a single purpose and his hands didn’t stop moving until he found something tucked between two folded shirts. The boot knife wasn’t exactly what he’d been hoping to find, but it would serve his purpose well enough.
“So, the three of you come to your senses or not?” the man outside asked.
“Yeah!” Jarrett shouted.
“All right, then. We’ll see about that.”
The smoke was growing thicker inside the bunkhouse, but the front door was open and several of the windows had shattered. A hot wind drifted in from the south to stir gritty air within the large structure. Because of that, Jarrett could see just enough of the man outside to tell he was climbing down from his saddle. Jarrett approached the door, jerked the knife from its scabbard, and tossed the leather casing aside.
“You men won’t regret this,” the man outside said.
Jarrett marched straight to the front door, ignoring the flames to his left, the creaking of the lumber above him, and the smoke that threatened to suffocate him on the spot. He simply held his breath and quickened his pace to a run as he climbed through the window next to the door and threw himself at the man who was tying off the reins to his horse.
That man wasn’t familiar to Jarrett, which didn’t slow him down in the slightest. Jarrett came straight at him while swinging the boot knife with everything he had. His first slash caught the man across the chest, tearing shirt and skin alike. The next one gouged into the man’s shoulder, cut straight down, and sliced across the first bloody gash that had been made. He wore a gun at his side. Two of them, in fact. Jarrett only noticed them because the man’s hands were within inches of them, but he was too surprised to skin either of the weapons.
“Who . . . the hell are you?” the man asked.
He didn’t know.
He truly didn’t know.
For a moment, he and Jarrett simply stood there, gazing at each other in sheer disbelief.
“You got him!” Edgar said from somewhere behind Jarrett. “That’s the one that’s been coming around kicking the hell out of the three of us and you got him.”
“No,” Jarrett said. “Not yet.”
The surprise on the gunman’s face was wearing off. He blinked the rest of it away so a mean grimace could take its place. “You’re the asshole that owns this spread,” he growled. “Clay said—”
Jarrett had barely moved. It had been simple to take the knife in his hand, drive it into the other man’s belly, and put an end to his killing days. When the gunman’s hand finally did move, it was to grab the knife that had stuck him. Jarrett did the worst possible thing in that situation for him by removing the blade in a swift, sideways arc.
The gunman dropped to his knees, gulping like a grounded fish as he flopped onto his side.
“Th . . . there’s another one,” Edgar said.
Looking over to him, Jarrett asked, “What’s wrong with you? Are you hurt?”
Edgar stood there with one of Stan’s arms draped over his shoulder. Jack stood on the other side to support Stan by his other arm. Both ranch hands seemed more taken aback by the scene in front of them than they were by the burning buildings around them. “No,” Edgar replied before too long. “Not hurt. I just . . . I didn’t think . . .”
“He was here to watch you men burn,” Jarrett said.
“I know, but . . .” Suddenly Edgar’s head shifted so he could look at something past the horse that was pulling nervously against the reins tied to a post near the bunkhouse.
Jarrett looked over there as well to find another man on horseback. This one, he did recognize. That rider was one of the men who’d been leaving his house when Clay brought Jarrett in to retrieve the money hidden inside the desk. Judging by the expression on the rider’s face, he recognized Jarrett as well.
“You?” the rider said. He didn’t wait for an answer before pulling the smoke wagon that was holstered on his hip.
As soon as he saw the gunman reach for his weapon, Jarrett dropped to one knee so he could arm himself as well. Since the killer he’d stabbed was beyond the need of any mortal possessions, Jarret
t helped himself to both of the pistols he wore.
“I’m here,” Edgar said breathlessly. “I can cover you.”
Jarrett barely took notice of the old ranch hand as he struggled to retrieve the dead man’s guns. When the killer fell, he’d landed in an awkward heap. Working from a peculiar angle, combined with the leather straps holding the guns in place, Jarrett was unable to get himself heeled before the man on horseback fired his first shot.
After what felt like an eternity had passed, Jarrett pulled one of the guns free. The second one came loose soon after, which was when he took a moment to see what Edgar was doing. The older man stood beside the dead gunman’s horse and had removed a rifle from its boot.
“Stay here,” Jarrett said.
Edgar nodded and cringed when another shot was fired. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”
Jarrett stood up. Comforted by the weight of the guns in his hands, he brought both pistols up and thumbed back the hammers. The man on horseback was about twenty yards in front of him. He most likely would have gotten a clear shot at him by now if his horse hadn’t been getting more and more spooked by the flames that were spreading to consume the bunkhouse.
The first shot Jarrett fired was mostly just to steel himself for the next one. He sent it flying through the air as the mounted gunman did the job properly by taking an extra moment to aim. Unfortunately for him, someone else had beaten him to the punch. The distinctive sound of a rifle shot came from behind Jarrett, giving him the chance to follow up.
Walking forward, Jarrett pulled his triggers again and again. The stolen pistols bucked against his palms, spitting death into the killer in front of him. Even as the man fell from his horse, Jarrett continued to fire. He circled around the horse, pointing the guns down at its owner as the hammers slapped against one spent round after another.
“He’s done,” Edgar said.
When he felt a hand on his shoulder, Jarrett spun around so quickly that he knocked one pistol against the older man’s shoulder. Edgar hopped back and raised his hands. He still held the rifle but pointed it at the light purple sky as he said, “Easy, boss. It’s just me.”
Vigilante Dawn Page 6
