Ryan Rides Back

by Bill Crider

  But then he looked at Virginia. If he hadn't returned, he might never have felt alive again, and even if it had been only for a few hours, it was worth it. He was sure it was worth it to Virginia, as well. She had told him something that she had no doubt wanted to say for years, and she would not have to live with the feeling of guilt any longer.

  "I have your promise, then, that you'll ask Billy?" Ryan said.

  "Of course," Kane said.

  Ryan wondered what the promise might be worth. "And what about me and Mrs. Burley? You'll let us leave?”

  “Naturally."

  "All right, then. Billy's at the shack. Where Sally was living."

  "That's a damn lie," Long said. "We searched there yesterday."

  "I know that," Ryan said. "So did the posse. We weren't there then. We went later. I knew it would be safe after it had been searched once."

  "What do you think?" Kane said to Long.

  "It might be the truth," Long said. "We could tell the posse had been there, like he said."

  "And Billy is there now?"

  "That's right."

  "I believe you," Kane said.

  "Good," Ryan said. "Just let us go now. We won't interfere anymore."

  Kane laughed. "You certainly won't," he said. "Do whatever you want with the woman," he told Long. "Then kill them both."

  Chapter Nineteen

  Ryan wasn't surprised to hear the words. They were what he had expected. Virginia's face remained impassive, and he knew that she, too, had not developed any false hopes.

  If he was ever going to take action, now was the time. He pressed his feet against the floor to test the strength in his legs. He thought he might be able to move now.

  Then the glass doors swung open. Billy Kane was standing there. He was holding McGee's pistol, which Virginia had dropped when she fell. It was pointed at Kane.

  "Let them go," Billy said.

  Everyone was surprised to see him, even Long. It took them all a moment to realize that he was holding a pistol.

  Kane was the first to recover. "I'm glad you're home, Billy. Put down the pistol. You don't need it here."

  "Yes, I do."

  Long was slowly bringing up his own weapon. "Going to try to kill him again, Long?" Ryan said.

  Kane swiveled his head to look. "Put it down, Long!" he said, his voice cracking.

  Long lowered the weapon, but he continued to stare at Billy like a snake staring at a bird.

  "They won't hurt you, Billy," Kane said. "You're my brother. "

  "Don't say that," Billy told him. "I don't want to hear that."

  Kane looked hurt. "What? After all I've done . . .”

  “I know what you've done."

  Ryan realized that Billy must have heard Kane's confession, but he wondered if Billy had the nerve to shoot the pistol even so. Ryan could see that Billy's hand was shaking ever so slightly.

  Something in Kane's face changed as he came to the same realization Ryan had reached. "You heard me, then?”

  “I heard you. You . . . you killed Sally."

  "It was an accident," Kane said. "She called me things, said things, and I simply . . ."

  "You killed her. And now I'll kill you."

  Billy clasped the pistol butt with both hands to steady them and pointed the barrel straight at Kane.

  Ryan thought he could hardly miss, considering the size of the target, if he could only bring himself to shoot.

  They all watched Billy, his finger tightening on the trigger, the sweat popping out on his brow.

  Shoot, Billy, Ryan thought.

  They never found out whether Billy would actually have done it.

  "To hell with this," Long said. He raised his pistol and pulled the trigger.

  There was a loud crash of the report, which seemed to echo from the walls of the room. Billy spun around and flung out the doors, hitting the dirt outside.

  Kane rounded on Long, fury in his face and voice. "You shot Billy, you filthy—"

  "To hell with you, too," Long said, and pulled the trigger again.

  The bullet smacked into Kane's flesh with a dull thud. Kane took a step backward, stunned, but apparently unhurt. "You'll regret this, Long," he said.

  Long shot him again.

  The bullet splatted into Kane's thick body. Ryan could see the red stains spreading on Kane's clothing, but Kane was still standing. He actually began walking toward Long, who was smiling thinly. Ryan got the impression that Long was enjoying himself almost as much as he would have had he gotten Virginia to toy with.

  Long fired a third time.

  Ryan could hear someone screaming, he thought, but his ears were ringing from the shots and he couldn't be sure. The smell of cordite filled the room. Ryan decided it was time to move, if he could.

  He threw himself out of the chair toward Barson, who had been watching the events unfold with a stupefied look, unable to take any action, as if he were paralyzed by what was happening in front of him.

  Ryan staggered into Barson, knocking the big man backward against the wall. Ryan pinned him there, pressing against him with his left shoulder, ignoring the searing pain that swept through him. With his right hand he groped for Barson's pistol.

  His fingers closed around the pistol butt just as Barson's closed around his neck. Barson began to squeeze, exerting enormous pressure and almost immediately cutting off Ryan's breath.

  Ryan could feel himself slipping into darkness, but he kept the pressure on Barson, not letting him away from the wall. He tried to concentrate on getting the pistol from the holster.

  When he finally got it free, he raised it and pressed it between himself and Barson. His mind was blanking, and he wasn't sure just who had the muzzle pointed at his chest.

  He pulled the trigger anyway.

  There was a loud crash, and Ryan felt the fire singe him, burning him through his shirt.

  But it was Barson who cried out and released his grip as he began to slide slowly down the wall, leaving a red streak at his back.

  Ryan, gasping for breath, turned to the room.

  Kane was on the floor, flopping like some gigantic catfish out of water.

  Long was cutting the ropes that held Virginia, crouching behind her as she still sat in the chair.

  Someone still seemed to be screaming, but Ryan could not make out who it was. The sound of the gunshots still rang in his ears.

  Kane was trying to sit up. "Billy … Billy …" he said.

  It was Billy who was screaming. Ryan realized it then. Billy was not dead, and he lay outside the door, screaming in pain.

  Long jerked Virginia up out of the chair. "Don't try anything with me, Ryan," he said. "I'll kill her."

  Considering what he'd already done, Ryan had no doubt at all that Long meant exactly what he said. The trouble was that Ryan also knew that Long was going to kill her anyway, eventually.

  Long backed toward the door, keeping Virginia in front of him as a shield. "I'll be leaving now," he said. "After that, I don't give a damn what you do, Ryan."

  Billy had stopped yelling, and Ryan could see that he was sitting up. He still had the gun. Long didn't appear to be paying him any attention. There was a large dark stain near the middle of Billy's chest.

  Ryan thought that Billy was going to shoot Long, but then he saw that Billy's bleary gaze was elsewhere. On his brother.

  "Billy … Billy …”Kane said.

  Billy steadied the pistol and pulled the trigger.

  The bullet entered Kane's left eye and came out the back of his head, ending all the frustrations of Billy's life.

  Billy fell over, already dead, but Long whirled on him and shot him once more to be sure.

  Billy's corpse bounced up slightly and then settled on the ground.

  Quick as a snake, Long had the gun pointed at Ryan again.

  Somehow Ryan knew with an absolute certainty that Long was going to pull the trigger. He had only two choices: take the bullet or try to kill Long, at the risk of hitt
ing Virginia.

  Virginia's eyes told him all he needed to know. She would rather die than suffer whatever Long would do to her. It was worth the chance.

  Ryan fired.

  All the days of shooting after his recovery, all the practice, all the spent shells, had prepared him for this moment. He would never be fast, would never outdraw anyone. But he could shoot straight.

  His only target was Long's head, and the bullet took off the top of it.

  Bright drops of blood filled the air as Long jerked backward, his own pistol firing futilely into the air.

  Long fell, pulling Virginia along with him. She struggled to free herself from his death grip as his boot heels kicked against the floor.

  Ryan walked over, very slowly, but as fast as he could. He reached down and pulled on Long's arm, still wrapped around Virginia's waist. It was like a vise, but Ryan kept pulling until something gave.

  Virginia scrambled up. Her gown was spotted with blood. "Is he . . . ?"

  "Dead," Ryan said.

  "Good."

  Ryan looked around him. Long lay at his feet, with Billy not far off. Back in Kane's office, Barson was apparently sitting against the wall, only the long blood streak giving away the fact of his death. Kane lay on the floor, his head shattered.

  Of them all, thought Ryan, Billy was probably the least guilty, at least as far as Ryan was concerned.

  There had been a time when he would have felt elation at the scene, Ryan knew, but that time was long past. There was a sense of rightness about it, though, almost a sense of justice.

  Sally had been avenged by one who had loved her at least as much as her own brother, and Long and Barson had paid for all the things they had done in Kane's name and at his orders.

  None of that changed anything.

  Sally Ryan was still dead. Ryan's arm would always be useless to him and cause him pain. Virginia would never really forget the way she had given Ryan up to Kane.

  But maybe Ryan would get his land back.

  And one day Pat Congrady would find himself another woman to marry and forgive Ryan's accusations. He might even give Jack Crabtree a job.

  Ryan would tell the true story of his sister's murder, and if there was a next time for something like that, perhaps the citizens of Tularosa would think twice before convicting a man on skimpy evidence and the fact that they hated his name.

  "I think I have a horse out there somewhere," Ryan told Virginia. "Let's go on back to town."

  "Yes," she said. She put her arm around Ryan's waist to steady herself. "Let's go back."

  They turned away from the house and started in the direction of the tree where Ryan had left the horse.

  This time he thought he could find it. The sun was up, and there was plenty of light.

  Chapter Twenty

  That night Ryan slept alone in the place where his sister had died. Late, sometime after midnight, he had a dream, an old dream, one that he had dreamed before.

  Through the haze of a shimmering heat wave he could see the trading post in the distance. He resisted the urge to spur up his horse; he knew that the horse didn't have much more to give. They both needed water and food, but water most of all.

  The trading post was almost falling down when he got there. The logs and wood were rotten and seemed to lean crazily one way or the other. The hitching rail crumbled in his hands when he tried to tie the horse's reins to it.

  He went inside, but there was no one there. He called out, but his voice echoed hollowly in the empty room. There were cans on the shelves, but they were covered with dust, as if no one had handled them for years. Dust from the ceiling sifted down on his hat.

  He knew that there would be a well out back, however. There had to be, or there would be no trading post there in the first place. When he turned to go outside and look for it, he saw the eagle.

  It was in a wooden cage about four feet long, three feet wide, and not much taller than the eagle itself. The bird would walk the length of the cage, turn, and walk back the other way.

  Turn again.

  Walk back.

  Turn.

  Walk.

  The eagle's feathers on each side were worn away from brushing the sides of the cage in its walking and turning. The dream changed slightly then.

  Ryan grabbed up the cage, feeling a sense of urgency that he had never felt before. He rushed outside with it, stumbling over his own feet in his hurry.

  He set the cage on the ground and ripped open the door, tearing the rotting leather thong.

  The eagle paced toward the opening.

  Without a pause, it stepped outside.

  Its eyes looked longingly at the sky as the dusty wind ruffled its feathers.

  Ryan hardly dared to breathe.

  Then the eagle took a step into the wind.

  It raised its wings, and flew, slowly at first, then faster, circling higher and higher in a widening spiral.

  Ryan watched it until it was no larger than a speck in the sky, and then it turned and flew away.

  Somehow in the dream Ryan was still with the eagle. Or he was the eagle.

  Far below him, a man was walking, a man dressed all in black.

  The man looked up and saw the bird, and somehow the bird knew, Ryan knew, that a smile creased the man's aged face.

  And as the eagle soared, the old man turned and continued walking . . . walking. . .

  About the Author

  BILL CRIDER, mystery writer and professor of English at AlvinCommunity College, holds a Ph.D. from the University of Texas at Austin. He lives in Alvin, Texas, with his wife and children.

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