“I see,” Vint shrugged, then grinned faintly. “Well, Texas always did breed men.”
Bodine nodded. “It’s fitting this way.”
The time for words had passed. Lee Scurlock tensed. He realized his mouth was dry, his palms moist. In the next few moments he might well die. He’d never wed Allison, never experience the joy of being her husband and rearing a family with her.
Like everyone else, Lee was riveted to the two Texans, awaiting the flash of movement that would determine his whole future. Or lack of it.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Seldom did gunfighters of the caliber of Evers and Bodine go up against one another. Both were confirmed man-killers, both were accurate even under fire, both were rattler-quick on the draw.
Seasoned gunhands liked to say that speed was second in importance to hitting what a man aimed at. But in this instance, since Bodine and Evers could shoot the head off a nail at ten paces without hardly trying, accuracy was a given. It was sheer speed that would decide the outcome. Whoever drew first stood to come out on top.
For a breathless span of seconds no one moved, no one spoke, no one seemed to breathe.
Then Jesse Bodine broke the spell by streaking his hands at his big revolvers. Vint Evers did likewise. And although Vint went for his guns a shade of a heartbeat after Bodine did, the two men cleared leather at the exact same moment and four pistols boomed in thunderous unison.
If Lee had blinked, he would have missed it. He saw both men sway. Leathery tough, neither went down. Both leveled their pistols again, but it was Vint Evers who banged off two shots first and Jesse Bodine who was jolted onto his heels and toppled like a mighty oak in a forest.
Even as Bodine fell, Ike Shannon vented a roar and rushed up the slope. He shot wide of Vint Evers in order not to catch the lawman in the spray of buckshot. His first blast flung two Bar K hands to the earth, both ripped and bleeding profusely.
The rest of the cowboys galvanized into action, clawing for irons, firing as fast as they could.
A leaden hornet buzzed Lee as he entered the fray. His pistols molded to his palms and he brought them into play. He sent two slugs into the gunman who had nearly taken his head off, two more into a cowboy taking aim at Vint Evers.
Gunfire boomed like thunder, rolling off across the flatland below. By now all the Bar K riders were shooting and dodging and shooting again.
Vint Evers rotated to the right and placed a bullet squarely in the sternum of a hefty cowboy, who then stumbled into a companion.
Farther down the line a scarred gunman had eyes only for the tall Texan. Skipping forward so he would have a clear shot, he fanned his Remington three times. At least one slug hit home, because Vint Evers stumbled and went to his left knee. The lawman raised his right arm to return fire, but someone beat him to it.
Ike Shannon saw his friend go down. Bellowing in rage, the Irishman charged past Vint, placing himself in the line of fire. The scarred gunman fanned another shot that missed. Shannon emptied his scattergun, and at that range the buckshot nearly tore the shooter in half.
The marshal was down. The gambler’s gun had gone empty. Only Lee Scurlock had loaded weapons and was in any position to protect them. And protect them he did. Sprinting up the slope, he fired to the right and left, his pistols cracking in steady cadence.
Lee did not think about what he was doing. He did not consciously pick his targets. Self-preservation spurred him into firing on pure instinct, first at a Bar K hand to the left, then at another to the right, and then he whirled and squeezed off two shots at a lean cowboy who had clipped his hat. Pivoting, he saw a scruffy gunman pointing a pistol in his direction. His Colt hammered, adding a new nostril to the man’s face.
Suddenly the firing ceased. Lee realized that it had, but in his razor-tense state he did not equate the quiet with a cause. He spun from side to side, seeking new threats, his fingers literally itching to pull the trigger.
“It’s over, laddie. They played their hand and lost. You can relax.”
It took a bit for Ike Shannon’s remark to register. Lee looked at his Colts, then at the bodies littering Boot Hill. Finally it sunk in. Every last Bar K hand was down, most of them dead, a few moving weakly, a few convulsing. Dark stains framed many. A thick haze born of gun smoke partially shrouded the slaughter.
Near the center, Jesse Bodine stirred. He sat up, his cocked revolvers still in his hands.
Lee swung toward him. Ike Shannon whipped out a pistol. But Vint Evers looked up and called out, “Don’t shoot! He’s done for.”
Bodine, oddly enough, smiled. “That I am,” he admitted, and coughed. Blood seeped from his mouth and nose. “You shot me to pieces, damn your bones,” he said to Evers with no malice at all.
“I tried my best,” Vint said.
Jesse Bodine slumped forward but managed to lift his head. “Too bad we didn’t meet a long time ago. You would have done to ride the river with.”
It was the highest compliment any man could pay another. Bodine raised his glazing gaze to the multitude of sparkling stars, said, “They’re so pretty, ain’t they?” and pitched onto his face.
Ike Shannon slowly lowered his pistol. “Let’s get you to the sawbones, Vint. How bad are you hit?”
There was no answer. The gambler and the southerner turned, to see Vint Evers lying stone cold on the dry grass.
~*~
The parlor in Doctor Franklyn’s house served as his waiting room on occasion. Lee Scurlock sat in a rocking chair, hands folded, while Ike Shannon paced back and forth, making a shambles of his hat, which he kept crushing as if it were soaked and he had to wring the water out.
“How much longer can it take?” the Irishman complained, as he had every five minutes for the past half hour.
Lee was thinking of Allison, of how she would feel if he were the one under Doc Franklyn’s knife instead of Vint Evers. He fingered his badge and came to a decision. Once Allister Kemp was dealt with, his days as a lawman were over. He had no hankering to put Allison through what Nelly Rosell was going through.
“Lowe and Kemp,” Ike Shannon said. “If it’s the last thing I ever do, I’m making wolf meat of both of them.”
Lee stirred. “Kemp won’t dare try anything else for a while. He’s lost almost half his men already, and the word on the street is that a lot of others have lit a shuck for healthier climates.”
“They’re the smart ones.”
A glance at the grandfather clock showed Lee that it was close to three in the morning. Evers had been in there for over five hours.
From behind the heavy green curtain that separated the parlor from the physician’s work area came subdued voices and the occasional metallic clatter of instruments.
Lee yawned and stretched. No wonder he felt so tired. He wondered if Allison had stayed up to await his return. Mrs. Franklyn had kindly conveyed word to her when she went to fetch Nelly. Knowing Allison as well as he did, he wouldn’t be surprised if—
The green curtain rattled to one side. Doc Franklyn wore a white apron spattered with scarlet. His hands and forearms were red to the elbows. New lines had been added to his seamed face, and he rubbed his eyes as he stepped out.
Lee was more interested in the figure lying on a large table. Bandages covered the Texan’s chest and left shoulder; his eyes were closed, his chest rising and falling rhythmically.
Beyond the table sat Nelly, a white strip looped around her head. She held Vint’s hand in hers, tears pouring down her cheeks, her eyes glistening with love and gratitude as well as the tears.
Shannon moved to meet the doctor. “Give it to us straight. Will he pull through?”
Doc Franklyn nodded wearily. “Your friend will live. Mind you, he won’t be throwing a gun for months. He’ll have to take it easy at first, with plenty of bed rest.” Pausing, he indicated Nelly and spoke softly. “Her devotion is quite remarkable. She watched the entire operation without flinching. I daresay Mr. Evers will recover remarkably fa
st with her for inspiration.”
“Vint will live,” Shannon said almost under his breath. The next moment he groaned and keeled over.
Lee was nearest. Automatically, he leaped up and caught hold of the gambler before Shannon could strike the floor. His right hand made contact with a warm, sticky substance. When he pulled it back, it was slick with blood. “What in the world?” he blurted.
“He took a slug too?” Doc Franklyn exclaimed, as amazed as the Tennessean. “Why didn’t you let me know sooner?”
“He never said a word,” Lee replied. Together, they carried Shannon into the operating area and set him down on a sofa across from the table.
The doctor shook his head. “The darned fool. What was he thinking of?”
Lee knew the answer to that. Shannon always thought of Vint Evers first, always placed the Texan’s welfare before his own. So even though Ike had been hit, he had kept it a secret until assured that Evers would live. The depth of their friendship was something to admire.
Franklyn stepped to a washbasin. “I want you to go home, young man,” he told Lee. “I can tell that you’re exhausted, and there’s nothing more you can do here.”
“But—”
“Please, I’m too tired myself to waste breath arguing. I’ll send word as soon as I’ve ascertained Shannon’s condition.”
Nelly was staring at the Irishman. “How many more?” she asked no one in particular. “How many more before it’s all over?”
Neither Lee nor Franklyn answered. Lee bade them good night and departed, hurrying through the unusually silent town.
Diablo was as quiet and empty as Boot Hill. A drunk snored on a bench. A prospector and a dove walked arm in arm to the west, toward a cheap hotel.
Lee paused to take a deep breath of the cool night air. So much had happened in so short a time that he’d not had a chance to unwind since the day before. It was hard to believe that in a few short hours dawn would paint the eastern horizon pink.
The sudden drumming of hooves—many, many hooves—brought Lee around in a crouch. For a few seconds he thought that the Regulators had returned in force, although why they would approach from the east instead of the west escaped him.
The stark glare of light from an upstairs window played over a column of men, over their dusty uniforms and the banner one of their number held. Sabers rattled. Accoutrements clattered.
Lee blinked a few times, confounded. A tall officer at the head of the cavalry detachment spotted him and angled across the deserted street.
“Company, halt!”
The command must have woke up everyone within ten blocks. The officer stared at the Tennessean’s badge and asked, “Are you Marshal Evers, by any chance?”
“I’m a deputy,” Lee clarified, trying to count the troopers. It was hopeless. The file extended clear to the river. “Evers took three bullets. He’s over to Doc Franklyn’s—”
“The marshal, shot?” the officer declared. “Well, then, we’ve arrived in the nick of time.” Removing a gauntlet, he swatted dust from his sleeve. “I’m Major Whittaker.”
“Major.”
“We’ve ridden day and night to get here. Let me assure you that we will bring a quick end to the hostilities. The governor is aware of the disturbance and sent us to quell it.”
Lee could scarcely credit his ears. The worst was over. Kemp’s reign of terror was at an end. “How did you get here so fast? Did Will Dryer send word?”
Whittaker cocked his head. “Dryer? No, I don’t recollect that name. A rancher named Allister Kemp dispatched a rider three days ago.”
A lightning bolt could not have shocked Lee Scurlock more. “Three days ago?” he repeated.
“Mr. Kemp reported that a state of total anarchy exists here,” Major Whittaker said. “Rogue bands of out-of-work miners have been terrorizing law-abiding citizens. Armed squatters have taken over part of Kemp’s range. Bands of assassins have slain community leaders.” The officer wagged a finger at the southerner. “I’m surprised that Marshal Evers didn’t send word himself. This crisis is more than civil authorities can deal with.”
“Kemp contacted the governor,” Lee said, dazed by the implications.
“Didn’t you know that Mr. Kemp and Governor Fremont are the best of friends?” Major Whittaker slipped his hand into the gauntlet. “Relay my regards to the marshal. Tell him—” The officer stopped as if struck by a thought. “Evers will live, won’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent.” The officer beamed. “Well, I can’t dally. I’m under strict orders to reach Kemp’s ranch without delay. I was told the Bar K is due west of Diablo. Is that correct?”
“You can’t miss it,” Lee promised.
“Thank you. As soon as we’ve verified that Mr. Kemp is safe, we’ll be back to put Diablo under martial law.” Major Whittaker rose in the saddle and hiked his arm. “Company, hoooooooo!”
Lee stepped to the boardwalk and watched pair after pair of tired blue-clad soldiers trot by. The governor had sent enough to quell an Apache uprising.
Only when the last of the column melted into the darkness west of town did Lee bend his steps toward the Delony house. A terrible melancholy gripped his soul, mixed with spurts of baffled fury that brought lurid profanity to his lips.
Allister Kemp had won. The Englishman had outwitted them at every turn, had been one step ahead of them from the very beginning. No, make that five steps ahead.
Based on what the major had said, Lee guessed that Kemp had sent word to the territorial capital at Prescott asking for military help before he attacked the homesteaders and miners, claiming they were the ones to blame. The swift raids by the Regulators had been intended to uproot Kemp’s enemies before the cavalry got there.
Since Kemp was a close friend of Fremont’s, and since it had been Kemp who reported the “disturbance,” the governor would naturally favor Kemp’s version of events.
The man was the devil incarnate.
Sighing, Lee tilted his head back to relieve stiffness in his neck. Soon he spied the Delony house, a glowing square marking the parlor. Allison must still be up. He hurried, eager for her company.
In his eagerness and his fatigue Lee failed to hear the stealthy pad of feet behind him until they were right at his heels. Instantly he whirled, or started to, when immensely strong arms encircled his chest and arms. He was lifted bodily from the ground as if he weighed no more than a sack of grain. Stale breath laced with liquor huffed over his face. A voice that grated like metal rending metal snarled in his ear.
“Now I’ve got you, bastard!”
An iron knee drove up between Lee’s legs. Excruciating pain exploded in his groin. He tried to grab a pistol, but his assailant shook him as a giant might a dwarf, shook him so that his teeth crunched together and his head swam. Then he was flung brutally to the ground.
“This is for my brother!”
A boot thudded into Lee’s ribs, nearly caving them in. Pinpoints of light spun and danced before his eyes. He looked up but could not see the man’s face for the shimmering fireflies.
“Nate Collins got word to me,” the apish apparition said. Another vicious kick doubled Lee in half. “You should’ve killed Ed. No one does that to a Gristy and lives to brag about it.”
Beset by a stifling fog of torment, Lee realized that his attacker was Ed Gristy’s kin. A boot caught him in the back, flaring his spine with exquisite anguish. The man seemed intent on stomping him to death. Unless he did something, and did it quickly, he would never set eyes on Allison again.
Marshaling every ounce of strength in his steel-spring body, Lee lashed out with both legs. That he connected was borne out by the sharp snap that punctuated the blow and the crash of a heavy body beside him.
Fiery oaths filled the air. “Damn you, you nearly busted my knee!” Gristy roared.
Hands made of granite closed on Lee’s throat. Fingers that could twist tree limbs apart gouged into his windpipe. Lee thrashed backward, b
atting at wrists as stout as oaks. Gristy sprang, straddling his chest, pinning him flat.
“Die, damn you!”
The fireflies faded. Looming above Lee was a ponderous face framed by a thick coal-black beard and lit by eyes that seemed to glow as red as those of hell spawn. Where Ed Gristy had been thin and puny, his brother was a hulking brute.
Dimly, Lee heard more footsteps. Another apparition flowed out of the night, this one wearing a patterned dress. Pale fists swung at Gristy’s head.
“Stop it!” Allison cried. “Let go of him!”
As casually as if he were swatting a fly, Gristy swung an arm and sent her sprawling. A surge of new power gushed through Lee, fueled by rage so potent that, twisting sharply, he hurled Gristy off him and leaped erect.
The human grizzly rebounded in the blink of an eye. Steel glittered dully in the starlight, slashing in a savage arc.
A knife! Lee backpedaled, and the tip sliced into his shoulder, though not deep. Out of the corner of an eye he saw Allison rising. Fearing that she would try to help again and be fatally stabbed, he moved to place himself between Gristy and her.
Gristy must have guessed his intention, because the man darted in like a striking snake, flicking the knife at Lee’s chest. Lee blocked it with his left forearm. For tense moments they strained shoulder to shoulder, wrist against wrist, Gristy striving to lock his other hand on Lee’s neck, Lee’s right hand fumbling at his hip for his right-hand Colt.
Just as Lee touched the pistol, Gristy shifted and flashed the knife at Lee’s belly. By sheer accident the blade was deflected by the rising six-gun. Gristy snapped the knife high for another stroke, but before it could descend Lee shoved the barrel of his pistol against the bigger man’s abdomen and fired.
The shot was muffled. Gristy tottered backward. The knife fell at his feet and he dropped a hand to his own pistol. It was halfway out when Gristy buckled, his eyes rolling up into his head as he gave up the ghost.
Allison leaped into the southerner’s arms. “I kept looking out the window for you and saw this commotion—” She broke off, overcome by relief, sobbing softly.
Diablo (A Piccaddilly Publishing Western Book 6) Page 26
