“Got one!” the gunman cried.
Shaking a leg, Lee tried to dislodge the clinging hardcase. He might as well have tried to shed his own skin. Kemp’s hired killer clung on as if for dear life. Lee snapped his Colt above his head to render the man unconscious. As he did, a form took shape before him. It was another Regulator, revolver leveled.
Lee was caught flat-footed. It would be impossible for him to lower his pistol and shoot before the Regulator did. The man’s wolfish countenance creased in bloodthirsty relish as his revolver swiveled.
Three shots sounded. Lee flinched as if struck, but he was not the one who staggered backward with each retort; not the one who folded in half and keeled forward; not the one who sprawled lifeless in the dust.
Vint Evers advanced, smoke wisping from the barrels of both his expensive pistols. The left one barked again, and the man holding Lee’s legs collapsed.
“Are you all right, pard?”
Lee nodded, deeming it unwise to talk until all the Regulators had been accounted for.
“I think that’s the last of them,” Vint said.
But he was wrong. Beyond the Texan reared a gun-toting centaur whose dark mount bore down on the lawman’s broad back. Lee returned his friend’s favor by working the hammer of his Colt twice.
An eyeball ruptured, a cranium shattered, and the Regulator crashed down almost at Vint’s feet. The dark horse kept on going, the smoke swallowing it whole.
Quiet reined once more, broken by a canine whine. Lee moved so that he was back to back with Evers. Gradually, the wind stiffened. The shadowy gray blanket lifted and scattered, leaving a scene of carnage in its wake.
Six bodies littered the road and its fringe. Only two moved, one a scruffy gunman who was trying to crawl off despite a busted arm and a hole in his torso.
The other survivor was Nate Collins. Flat on his back, his knees bent, he continued whining until Lee stood over him. “Scurlock!” he spat through grating teeth. “May you rot in the deepest pit of hell!”
Lee said nothing. He reloaded.
Death’s door yawned for Collins. His skin glistened like that of a slug. Only with monumental effort did his lips move. “Finish me, Reb!” Although his arms were out flung and his pistol was inches from his right hand, he made no attempt to grab it.
“Why should I waste the bullet?” Lee retorted.
“I can’t move, damn it! You can’t just ride off and leave a man like this!”
Vint Evers joined them. “You likely took some lead in the spine. Might be you’ll linger for hours, might be for days.”
Nate uttered a throaty growl. “Damnation, it hurts! If the Reb won’t do me, then you pull the trigger, Texas. Surely you can’t stand to see a man suffer.”
Lee felt no sympathy at all. Collins had brought it on himself and now had to suffer the consequences. “You’ve got what you deserved.”
Maniacal flames danced in the blond gunman’s eyes. “And you’ll get yours, both of you! Just wait and see! Sooner or later someone will collect the bounty.”
“Bounty?” Vint said.
Contempt twisted Nate’s pasty complexion. “Yeah, you heard right! Kemp is offering a thousand dollars for your hide and five hundred for Scurlock s. Be flattered, Texican. He had to offer twice as much for you or otherwise there wouldn’t be any takers.”
“So it’s come to that,” Vint said.
“Jesse Bodine aims to collect both bounties,” Nate crowed, the effort flecking his lips scarlet.
“Where can I find your boss?”
“I’ll never tell! You can go to hell!”
“You first,” the Texan said casually. Slanting both Colts, he shot Nate Collins in the eyes.
~*~
Bedlam reigned in Diablo for a spell.
The influx of terrified homesteaders incited everyone to a fever pitch. Fueled by harrowing tales of fiery ruin, the town dwellers gave voice to collective outrage.
But they were not so mad that any of them mounted up and rode south to protect stragglers. Nor were any mad enough to go after the man responsible, although they all knew who it was.
Most prospectors and miners did light out, to the north, fearful that the Regulators would strike their claims next.
Will Dryer, one of the first nesters to have his home reduced to cinders, wanted to call an emergency session of the town council, but four of the members were absent, among them Old Abe Howard.
By the time Vint Evers and Lee Scurlock rode into Diablo toward evening, the pot had cooled to a simmer. Most everyone was indoors, gathered in stores, saloons, and other public places to discuss the crisis.
An air of raw tension gripped Diablo. Everyone could feel it. Even the dogs slunk off to hide, and cats were conspicuous by their absence.
The lawmen reined in their tired horses. Lee turned to survey the four animals bearing draped corpses, then tied the rope by which he had led them to a post bracing the porch overhang.
Vint was in a hurry. The entire ride back he had fretted about Nelly. Barging on in, he found Ike Shannon seated at a desk, cleaning a rifle. No one else was present. “Where is she?” he demanded.
“Sheathe your claws,” the gambler said. “She’s fine. But she didn’t get much sleep last night and she could hardly keep her eyes open. So about an hour and a half ago I took her to our shack. No one will bother her there.”
Vint’s gut churned. Teego and those other killers had jumped him at their shack. “I’m going to check.”
“Wait. Tell me what happened.”
But Vint was not inclined to wait for anyone or anything. Brushing past Lee, he was out the door and turning right when a wall of citizenry stopped him.
People had converged from every which way. Some had seen the dead men being brought in, and word spread like wildfire. Townsmen, homesteaders, and a few pocket hounds formed a crescent that hemmed in the front of the building.
“Marshal Evers!” someone cried, inciting dozens to talk at once.
“One at a time!” Vint hollered again and again, but it was a losing proposition until Lee and Ike appeared, the Irishman cradling a shotgun.
The crowd quieted. A homesteader in sooty clothes who stood at the front raised an arm. “What do you plan to do about these Regulators, Marshal?”
“At the moment, nothin’,” Vint admitted.
“What?” chorused a dozen throats. The spokesman swore and barked, “They’ve driven us from our homes! Burned us out! Killed seven or eight—!”
“Killed who?” Vint challenged him. Scanning the assembly, he demanded, “Did any of you actually see the Regulators murder anyone?”
Glances were swapped. Some fidgeted. Some muttered. But no one responded.
Vint stepped forward. “So far as I know, no one has been killed. Don’t any of you go spreadin’ stories to the contrary unless you have proof. Things are bad enough. We don’t need a pack of lies makin’ matters worse. You savvy?”
“I understand,” the spokesman truculently answered. Others curtly bobbed their chins.
Gesturing at the bodies, Vint said, “Even with these six turnin’ up their toes, thirty or forty more Regulators are out there yet. There’s not much I can do against a small army that size with only two deputies.”
The crowd stirred. “Appoint a posse!” someone suggested. “Run the stinking Regulators out of the country!”
“Now, there’s an idea. Why didn’t I think of it?” Vint said sarcastically. To the townsman who had spoken, he said, “I’ll recruit you first. Are you handy with a shootin’ iron?”
“Well, no,” the townsman said. “I ain’t hardly ever handled a gun.”
“What about you?” Vint pointed at the farmer in sooty clothes. “You’re so all-fired up to have your revenge. Can you shoot worth a damn?”
The homesteader grew sullen. “Not really. But I’m no gunman! My livelihood is crops and stock. That’s what I know best.”
“Which is just the point I’m tryin’ to mak
e,” Vint said. “Where am I supposed to get this posse from? Thin air? I’m not about to lead a passel of you off to get yourselves rubbed out. We wouldn’t stand a chance against a gun-wise outfit like the Bar K.”
The Texan’s logic was irrefutable. No one disputed him, although many grumbled.
“I’m doin’ what I can,” Vint reassured them.
“Doesn’t sound like much to me,” snorted a clerk.
In a flash the lawman grasped the front of the offender’s shirt and shook him like a cougar might a terrified rabbit. “Are you on the peck, friend?”
“Who? Me?” The man gulped. “No sir, Marshal. I didn’t mean no disrespect.”
Capping his anger, Vint stepped back. Emotions had been worn raw, and it was up to him to set a good example. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I reckon I know how all of you must feel. I’m doing what I can. You have to trust me. Spread the word among your friends. Stay calm for the time being. That’s all I ask.”
The delay had chafed at Vint’s nerves. Touching his hat brim for the benefit of the ladies, he hurried around the corner, wishing he had wings on his feet like that Greek god a journalist had once told him about.
Ike Shannon nudged Lee. “Let’s go. We’re not leaving Vint alone for a minute. Until Kemp is taken care of, the three of us should stick together.”
Lee tended to agree, but he also wanted to go see Allison. For now he was content to tag along, pondering deeply.
Should he tell Allison about the bounty on his head? She worried enough as it was; the bounty might prompt her into pleading with him to quit. And he couldn’t do that, not when Vint and Shannon needed him so badly.
He figured it might be best to keep his mouth shut. So far, only Vint knew. The Bar K riders were aware of their employer’s brazen gambit, but they were unlikely to spread the word. They wanted the money for themselves.
Kemp certainly wasn’t about to tell anyone else. If the bounty became common knowledge, the Englishman risked having a U.S. marshal show up with a warrant for his arrest. A bounty on a lawman was a federal offense.
Allister Kemp. Lee had to admit that the cattle baron’s strategy was brilliant. A grand design had lain behind Kemp’s every move from the beginning, and none of them had been smart enough to realize it.
The Englishman must have learned that Jim Hays was coming to help Bob Delony and sent Collins, Gristy, and Morco to Wynn’s relay station to goad Hays into a gunfight.
Lee scowled. When he had thwarted that plan, Kemp had invited him to the Bar K, then had Matt Rash dress up as a miner and hire pocket hunters to ambush him. That worked so well that Kemp had Rash do it again, hiring Joe Neff to kill Jim Hays, while another man bushwhacked Old Abe.
Kemp had cleverly hoped to divert suspicion by using miners as unwitting scapegoats.
The court action, Lee now firmly believed, had been a ploy from the start, a ruse to make everyone think Kemp was content to wage a legal battle when all the while the rancher was taking steps to launch a private little war. Why else had Kemp hired more gunmen? Why else had he herded his cattle to safety on the west range?
Lee should have seen it sooner. Similar tactics had been used by one of the factions in the Lincoln County War.
Like Murphy and Dolan in New Mexico, Kemp was cleverly covering his tracks, carrying out his master plan in such a way that none of the evidence directly incriminated him. By having his hired help do everything, Kemp kept his own hands relatively clean.
A jury would have a hard time finding him guilty if no proof linked him to any of the crimes his men committed. Hearsay would not suffice.
The wheels of frontier justice ground slowly. Juries were inclined to give the accused the benefit of the doubt in cases where the law did not have an ironclad case.
Kemp knew all that. Should he find himself in court, he’d simply claim that he had no hand in organizing the Regulators, that his men did it on their own. He was an accomplished liar. And as most everyone was well aware, a clever lawyer and a good actor could get away with anything.
Even the way the law was enforced in the West worked in the cattle baron’s favor. In remote regions, like Diablo Valley, county governments did not yet exist, so there were no county sheriffs. U.S. marshals were few and far between, and they enforced only federal laws. A cunning lawbreaker need only worry about town marshals like Vint Evers, who were limited in how much they could do.
A crafty man like Kemp could carry out his wicked designs with virtual impunity.
“There’s the shack, laddie,” Ike Shannon said, bringing Lee out of himself.
The plank dwelling was one of ten or so lined up in a row. An empty lot choked with weeds flanked it. Across the street stood a two-story frame building sporting a crudely painted sign: BOARDING HOUSE.
“I don’t see Vint,” the Irishman said.
“He’s probably inside with Nelly already,” Lee guessed.
Sure enough, the door creaked and the Texan and the dove emerged, arm in arm. They had eyes only for each other. He kissed her on the cheek and she brazenly planted her lips on his mouth.
Shannon coughed.
Vint Evers jerked back, a flush creeping up his neck. “Didn’t hear you come up,” he said.
The gambler shook his head in annoyance. His friend was behaving like a love struck kid, and it was liable to get him killed. “We should find somewhere safe for Nelly to stay until this whole business is over with. Maybe we could send her to Phoenix.”
Nelly Rosell clasped her man’s arm. “Not on your life, Ike Shannon. I appreciate your concern, but I’m sticking with Vint through thick and thin.”
Shannon felt no need to mention that it was not concern for her that prompted his suggestion. The woman was a millstone around Vint’s neck, a millstone that would drag the Texan down into an early grave if something was not done.
Lee Scurlock snapped his fingers. “I’ve got a brainstorm. Why can’t Nelly stay with Allison? Ethel and Bob Delony won’t mind, and she would be as safe there as anywhere else.”
“I wouldn’t want to put anyone out,” Nelly said.
“It wouldn’t be a bother. I can go right this minute and ask them.”
“Not so fast,” Nelly balked, torn by a sense of shame. The Delonys were a decent, upstanding couple, heavily involved in the new church. What would folks think if they took a soiled woman like her under their roof? “I need some time to think on it.”
“What’s to think about?” Lee responded. The solution seemed so obvious. He was going to say more when a gleam of light on the boardinghouse roof drew his attention.
Three cowboys were spaced along the roof’s edge. Each was armed with a Winchester, and each was taking cold, deliberate aim.
Chapter Twenty-one
So perfectly coordinated were Lee Scurlock’s reflexes that the very instant he spied the three riflemen, he exploded into action, angling both of his pistols up and out while shouting, “Evers! The roof! Look out!”
In a burst of tigerish speed, the Texan dove, bearing Nelly with him to the grass as the Winchesters thundered in lethal unison. Holding on to his sweetheart, Vint flipped toward the corner of the shack, seeking to get her under cover at all costs.
The cowboys were blasting away in earnest. Lee fired twice and saw one stagger. The tallest replied in kind, the slugs punching into the soil at Lee’s feet as he skipped sideways to cover Vint and Nelly.
Ike Shannon crouched, bringing the shotgun to bear but holding his fire when he realized the range was too great.
In another moment Vint rolled Nelly behind the shack, and suddenly the riflemen ducked out of sight.
“NO!” the Irishman roared, the Gaelic blood of his ancestors that flowed in his veins inflamed in berserk rage. “They’re not getting away if I can help it!” Hefting the scattergun, he charged across the street.
Lee wavered, unsure whether to aid Shannon or to stay by the Texan and Nelly. The decision was made for him.
“Help Ik
e!” Vint yelled.
The Tennessean sped after the impetuous gambler, who had paused at the boardinghouse entrance to cock the twin hammers on the sawed-off American Arms twelve-gauge. “Wait for me, Ike!”
But the Irishman was not waiting for any man. Flinging the door wide, he vanished.
Swearing luridly, Lee poured on speed and bounded inside, into a well-lit lobby. Down a corridor on the far side raced Ike Shannon. Lee sprinted after him and saw the gambler dart into a room at the end.
Without warning a middle-aged woman stepped from a doorway in Lee’s path. He nearly bowled her over, and had to grab her arms to keep her from falling. “Sorry, ma’am,” he blurted.
“I never!” the woman huffed. “What is all this? Goodness’ sakes!” Seeing his badge, she had the presence of mind to get out of the way.
Rushing on, Lee heard the blast of the shotgun. He reached the room, a tidy kitchen that opened onto an alley. Sprawled a few yards from the doorway was one of the riflemen, his chest shredded by buckshot. Lee leaped over the body.
Shannon was almost to the end of the alley, reloading on the fly. He glimpsed a shadowy form through the slats in a picket fence on his left and, spinning, emptied both barrels.
A cannon could not have done better. The blast made a jagged hole the size of a watermelon in the fence. A shrill shriek greeted it. Rushing up, Ike peered through the hole to discover a cowboy missing the upper half of his head.
Just then Lee saw the third rifleman, the one he had winged. The man stepped into the open at the end of the picket fence and raised a pistol. Lee thumbed both hammers, the Colts bucking in his grip.
The cowboy tottered, his gun going off into the air instead of into the Irishman. Wordlessly, he crumpled and convulsed a bit before life faded.
Shannon was reloading again. Jogging past, Lee inspected the last rifleman slain. “I’ve seen him before. He rides for the Bar K.”
“Was there any doubt?” Ike said. His only regret was that it had not been Allister Kemp behind the fence. “If it’s the last thing I ever do, I’m going to kill the bastard responsible,” he vowed.
“More will try to earn that bounty,” Lee mentioned. “We won’t have a moment’s peace.”
Diablo (A Piccaddilly Publishing Western Book 6) Page 23
