None of that had changed. Brock fully intended to carry out that plan. What had changed—or were at least in question—were his intentions where the Sanders woman was concerned. All along he’d been figuring he couldn’t leave her alive as a potential witness against him.
But after he’d heard her speak of the Orphan Peaks the way she did and had heard the echo of Adelia’s voice speaking with her . . . he wondered. Was that some kind of sign, an omen perhaps not to do with her as he’d planned?
Those questions, those uncertainties churned inside him. For so long he had been on a firm, never faltering course. He knew exactly what he needed to do. Not where or when necessarily, yet he held the conviction that the day would come. Sanders would pay . . . at his hands.
The day, and practically the hour, had arrived . . . but an unexpected complication with the woman had arrived with it.
Chapter 42
“Where in blazes you been?”
That was the greeting Macready got when he returned to camp. It came, not surprisingly, from a suspiciously scowling Wilby. Yet even Hinkson, who stood on the other side of the campfire that one or both of them had stoked to a crackling flame while Macready was gone, looked on as if he figured he was also owed an answer.
“I was out workin’,” Macready responded testily, annoyed by the demanding attitude. “While you two was still sawin’ logs, I found a spot where we can bury that dead horse.”
“Whereabouts? Close or far?” Hinkson asked.
“Not far.” Macready pointed. “Through that gully yonder. Ground slopes down just past where you can see, then cuts sharplike to one side under a shelf of sandstone and some flat stone slabs stacked like plates. We can drag the horse carcass in there close and then kick those plate rocks into collapsin’ without too much trouble, I think. Should do the job.”
“If it was that close and that easy to spot,” said Wilby, “what caused you to be gone for so long?”
It was Macready’s turn to scowl. Growing more annoyed, he said, “Hey, what’s with all the questions? I just busted out of a place where every move and every twitch I made got watched and asked about, thank you. I’m free from there now and don’t appreciate more of the same treatment.”
“Yeah, we know the place you’re talkin’ about real good,” said Wilby. “We busted out of there together, remember? And stickin’ together—not one of us slidin’ off sneakylike apart from the others—is how we figure it oughta stay.”
“Wasn’t nothing sneaky about what I went and did, for cryin’ out loud,” Macready argued. “Your lazy asses was sleepin’, so I let you be and went to do my explorin’. If anything, you oughta be grateful. Just like I was grateful for you to be asleep, Wilby—meant it would be that much longer before I’d have to listen to you grumblin’ and gripin’ about something.”
“Best watch that mouth of yours, son,” Wilby warned.
“How about you watch your mouth for a change?” Macready snapped back. “As for why I took a little extra time with my explorin’, I was on the hunt for some fresh game that would’ve benefited all of us. If I’d ’ve brought a deer or antelope or some such it would’ve meant no more horse meat for any of us to suffer through. And that means you in particular, Wilby, since you hate eatin’ horse the most and it’s become one of your favorite things to carry on about.”
“Anybody with a lick of sense would complain about eatin’ horse,” Wilby said sullenly.
“Maybe so,” Macready said, “but since I didn’t have any luck baggin’ anything else and you two have gone ahead and got us a good fire goin’ and horse is all we got, well, I for one am gonna settle for havin’ some more. I’m so hungry my belly thinks my throat has been cut.”
“I was thinkin’ along those same lines—as far as bein’ hungry and, on account of that, settlin’ for some more of that doggone horse,” Hinkson admitted.
Wilby frowned deeply. “Well, pardon me all to hell for not bein’ so quick to jump on board. It sure don’t mean I ain’t powerful hungry. But here now, Macready . . . You sayin’ you really think there’s a chance of findin’ wild game like you mentioned in this rock pile?”
“I don’t just think so, I know it,” said Macready. “I saw plenty of sign, just no critters right handy to go with ’em.”
“Deer and antelope, like you said?”
“That and more. Rabbits. Sage hens . . .”
Wilby cut him off with an exaggerated groan. “Stop. Man, you’re killin’ me. Why the hell didn’t you say something so’s we could’ve done some huntin’ before this?”
“Before this,” Hinkson reminded him, “we was hunkered in out of the rain and snow. So was all the critters. Wasn’t no chance to do no huntin’ before now.”
Wilby straightened up from where he’d been squatting close to the fire. As he rose, he scooped up the second rifle they’d confiscated. “Well then, I don’t intend to give up so blasted easy. You fellas stay here and choke down some more of that old nag if you want. Me, I’m lookin’ for something a whole lot better!”
Hinkson eyed him suspiciously. “Wouldn’t be that you’re just anglin’ to get out of helpin’ bury that horse, would it?”
“No, it ain’t that at all,” Wilby assured him. “I’ll be back in half an hour . . . by the time you fellas are done eatin’. If I have any luck, I’ll have something to share. If not . . . well, I reckon I’ll be goin’ hungry.”
“Damn right you will,” grunted Hinkson. “’Cause once we tumble rocks over that carcass, there ain’t gonna be no diggin’ back in for a cut of the meat.”
“That’s the whole point. I don’t want a cut of that stinkin’ meat.” Wilby shouldered the rifle. “You just keep the fire goin’. I used to be a pretty fair hunter back when I was a lad. I don’t figure I’ve lost that much of my touch. I aim to be comin’ back with some fresh meat to cook.”
* * *
The sun wasn’t quite at its noon zenith when Brock and the others reached the outlying shoulders of rock and tumbled boulders that marked the south-east boundary of Orphan Peaks. The day had warmed significantly, especially in contrast to the preceding damp, chilly weather. On the rolling prairie, the snow was all gone from the crests of the hills and reduced to melted, slush-thickened puddles in the lower areas. The same appeared to be true within the rugged terrain of the Peaks, with the jagged upthrusts and rounded rock surfaces bare while the narrower, deeper crevices still held patches of white.
“This isn’t at all what I expected,” said Libby, craning her neck to look around after Brock had signaled a halt. “Even after we started getting closer, it looked like just a pile of rocks, but I also see signs of grass and bushes and lots of trees back in there.”
“That’s right,” Brock agreed. “Deeper in are meadows and groves of trees, a couple spring-fed streams, even a small waterfall of sorts where one of the streams drops over a ledge. A lot of people skirt around and ride on by thinking it is nothing but a pile of rocks. But there’s a lot more to it than that.”
Sanders curled his top lip in a distasteful sneer. “You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t let my breath get took away by all the awe-inspirin’ natural beauty. To me it still looks like a big ol’ tombstone—my tombstone. There are worse places to get laid to rest, I reckon, but when you’re the one fixin’ to be put to bed with a pick and a shovel there ain’t none of ’em likely to tickle your fancy.”
“Too damn bad about you not gettin’ your fancy tickled,” snarled Brock. “I didn’t bring you here to appreciate the scenery . . . but I can guarantee your breath will get took away before I’m done with you.”
“Oh, that’s right. I almost forgot,” Sanders said. “I’m here on account of fate, ain’t I?”
Libby saw Brock’s narrowed eyes fill with more disgust and hatred than she would have thought possible to convey in one look.
“Make light while you can. You’ll soon be singing a different tune,” he told Sanders. “And the last note you hear will be your scr
eams echoing in and out amongst these rocks.”
Libby shivered at the words and the ominous tone with which they were delivered. Part of her was fearful to say what came out next, but part of her couldn’t help it. “You never did explain about the fate thing. You said you would when we got here.”
Brock cut his gaze to her and she shivered again in spite of the warm sun beating down on all of them. The hatred that had been in those eyes only moments ago was suddenly gone. It seemed as if, for her, it had melted.
And then he began to explain. “My wife and I used to come here often when we lived in these parts. It was one of her favorite spots. We’d picnic, explore, just be together. Just the two of us, like we were a million miles away from the rest of the world. We talked about building a cabin near here one day, someplace where we could always look out at the rocks and come over here and spend time whenever we wanted . . . But then I took the transfer to Kansas and that dream faded . . . And there, any and all the dreams we ever had turned into the nightmare of my Adelia’s long, slow, agonizing death.”
Brock’s eyes swung once more to Sanders, but they didn’t fill with simmering hatred and rage. They just seemed dark and empty, like two bottomless holes. “And now fate has brought me back . . . with the scurvy piece of vermin who killed my Adelia. Full circle, like I said before. A nightmare for a nightmare. A slow, agonizing death for a—” He stopped short, his words cut off by the dull, echoing boom of a rifle shot rolling and echoing out from somewhere deeper within the Orphan Peaks.
* * *
At the escaped convicts’ camp, Macready and Hinkson were fixing to bite into the smoking slabs of meat they’d just finished cooking on sticks held over the fire when they, too, heard the echoing report of a rifle.
Hinkson’s eyes went wide. He looked around over one shoulder and then back to Macready. “That’s got to be Wilby. You reckon he bagged something?”
“Sounds like,” Macready said.
They set aside their intended meal and rose to their feet. “If he managed to get a deer or antelope, he’ll probably need help bringing it in, won’t he?” said Hinkson.
“Most likely.”
Hinkson turned and looked around some more. “Sound travels kinda funny in these rocks, but I think the shot came from that general direction, don’t you?”
Macready’s eyes followed where the black man’s finger pointed. “Sounded like it to me, too. Plus, that’s the way Wilby headed out. So yeah, let’s us go that way and see what he brought down.”
They picked up their guns. Macready again took the rifle he’d carried earlier, plus the bandolier; Hinkson strapped on the holstered pistol and shell belt.
“Look at us,” Macready said with a bit of a self-conscious grin. “We look like we’re headin’ off to fight a war, not goin’ to help bring in some fresh meat.”
“Maybe so,” said Hinkson as they started in the direction they’d agreed upon, “but we sure ain’t gonna leave our guns here. They’re the only possessions we got on this earth.” Then he threw a grin over his shoulder. “Far as helpin’ to bring in some fresh meat . . . man, oh man, I hope that’s the case. I don’t want to get my hopes up, but my mouth is already waterin’ like a droolin’ baby’s.”
“I hear that,” said Macready. “I’m the one who’s been preachin’ about how horse meat ain’t so bad, but to tell the truth, if I never have to sink my teeth into another bite it’ll be too dang soon.”
They moved quickly, eagerly along, sometimes through narrow passageways or around large chunks of broken boulders, sometimes over weather-rounded humps of rock. Some of the rock formations loomed tall and high ahead of them, a few with sheer, flat faces. Before they’d gone very far, Wilby suddenly rounded one of those flat walls, hurrying in their direction. A kind of wide-eyed excitement showed on his face.
Reading the excited look as a good sign, Hinkson couldn’t wait to hear what was behind it. “We heard the shot,” he blurted. “Did you bag something? Did you get us some fresh meat?”
As Wilby reached them, breathing a little hard from his hurried pace, he shook his head. “No. No, I took a shot at a deer but missed.”
“Damn!”
“But wait. Wait . . . I got something better.”
“What are you talking about? What do you mean by something better?” Macready wanted to know.
Wilby grinned. “Remember when you said we might come across a ranch with a change of clothes for us hangin’ on the wash line? And then I taunted you about how maybe those clothes would blow off the line and come floatin’ through the air to land right here in our laps?”
“Damn it, Wilby, quit spoutin’ crazy talk. What are you gettin’ at?” Hinkson demanded.
His grin growing even wider, Wilby said, “What I’m tryin’ to tell you is that we got company here in this godforsaken pile of rocks. There’s men who’ve got clothes on their backs that can be ours for the takin’. What’s more, they’ve got horses with bulgin’ saddlebags that have probably got more clothes and food.” Wilby paused, his eyes taking on a different kind of gleam. “And they even got a woman with ’em!”
Hinkson canted his head back and arched a brow skeptically. “Are you sure you didn’t slip and fall somewhere and rap your head hard enough to shake loose the loco dust inside your noggin?”
“I’m tellin’ you true,” Wilby insisted. “After I missed that deer, I climbed up on some high rocks to get a better look where he might’ve bounded off to. I was hopin’ maybe I’d hit him after all and he’d either fallen or was draggin’ along wounded. As I got up on that higher place, see, some movement caught the corner of my eye off in another direction—off to the north and east some. And that’s when I saw ’em. Two men and a woman, scramblin’ down amongst some rocks and boulders out on the fringe. I figure they must have heard my shot and took to cover out of caution.”
“Whatever they’re doin’ here, I hope they don’t decide to bolt away before we can get to ’em,” Macready said, his brow wrinkling with worry. “Main thing, o’ course, is that we’d be losin’ whatever provisions they got. But also, if they get away and carry the report of hearin’ a rifle shot from here in these rocks to the wrong place, that might put a notion in the heads of some of those chasin’ us that we could’ve come this way.”
“So what?” said Hinkson. “One way or the other, we’ll be long gone by then. If we do miss out on this bunch we can—”
“We ain’t missin’ nothin’!” Wilby cut him off. “If these that I saw had a mind to take off, they would’ve done it when they first heard my shot. But they didn’t. They’re here for some purpose of their own. Maybe they’re hunters or some such. Like I said, they likely took to cover out of caution. And if there is any chance they might ride off, all the more reason we need to quit standin’ here jawin’ and get moved into positions closer to where they are. Then, if they try to bolt, we can just shoot ’em. Even a different shirt with a bullet hole in it is better than these prison stripes.”
“Hate the thought of shootin’ a woman, though,” muttered Macready.
“Don’t you worry, sonny,” Wilby told him. “Shootin’ the gal is for sure the last thing I got in mind for her. She’s got far better uses than servin’ as another bullet stopper . . . but before we get to any of that, we need to get a move-on. Come on. I’ll point out to you where they’re at and we can make our plans from there.”
Chapter 43
The sound, after traveling considerable distance across the rolling plains, reached Bob Hatfield’s ears as a faint, dull pop . . . but there was still no mistaking it. The marshal had heard the reports of too many gunshots in too many circumstances over the years not to recognize yet another. The only things to question were where it had come from and what it meant. And was it something he needed to concern himself with?
Bob reined his horses to a halt and sat his saddle for a full minute and more, listening intently for another shot or any other sound that might be related to it. He heard not
hing but the soft sigh of the wind and the munching sounds of his horses taking the opportunity to stretch their necks down and graze on some of the glistening grass revealed by the freshly melted snow.
The shot could be tied to many perfectly innocent things. There could be a ranch or farm nearby where somebody had taken a potshot at some varmint. Or maybe to bag an antelope or sage hen for supper. Or even something as simple as target practice, although that more logically would have included additional shots.
With the likes of Arlo Sanders and a kill-minded Vernon Brock also somewhere out on these plains, it could also be tied to them.
Bob knew the pace he’d been maintaining had eaten up a big gulp of distance. Was it enough to have caught up with—or at least drawn reasonably close to—Brock and the others? He didn’t want to get his hopes too high, but at the same time, he recognized it could very well be possible. Enough of a possibility, at any rate, that he decided he had no choice but to investigate the shot.
For starters, he nudged his horses to the crest of the highest of the rolling hills surrounding him, halted again, and pulled from his war bag a pair of high-quality binoculars—yet another tool once used by the Devil’s River Kid. Focusing the dual lenses, he slowly and carefully scanned to the south. Sound could be tricky in wide-open spaces, but he was pretty sure the shot had come from that direction.
There was no sign of movement or any hint of a ranch or farm in that direction. But about two, two-and-a-half miles away was a sizeable cluster of rock formations thrusting up in the midst of what otherwise seemed to be nothing but emptiness. Bob had no familiarity with the area that far west of Rattlesnake Wells. He could recognize the hazy humps of the Laramie Range off to the north and the Rockies far to the south, but he had no idea what that odd formation was. That singularity, combined with the total lack of anything else to go on, resulted in his decision to swing toward the rocks and check them out.
* * *
Crowded into a brushy notch between two shoulders of weather-rounded rock that extended out from the base of the Orphan Peaks, Vernon Brock concentrated intently on listening for any follow-up sound to the shot they had heard. Libby, Sanders, and their horses were gathered in close around him.
Rattlesnake Wells, Wyoming Page 25
