Twelve Dead Men

by William W. Johnstone

  Emory smiled faintly as he said, “My sister has a habit of speaking her mind in no uncertain terms.”

  Meredith turned her head and looked up at him. “And what’s wrong with that, I ask you?”

  “Not a thing as far as I’m concerned, Miss Emory,” Ace said quickly. “In fact, I find it pretty refreshing.”

  “You see, Lee, no one likes a mealy-mouthed person.”

  “No one could ever accuse you of that, my dear.” Emory turned his attention back to Ace and Chance. “We won’t keep you from your business.”

  “We’re in no hurry—”

  “Well, a little,” Chance interrupted Ace.

  “It was nice to meet you,” Meredith said. “I’m sure we’ll see each other again if you stay in Lone Pine for very long. Do you intend to?”

  “We, uh, don’t really know yet,” Ace said.

  “Well, I hope you do. Good evening.”

  Still smiling, Emory nodded. “Night, fellas.”

  Ace and Chance tugged on their hat brims and moved aside to let Emory and his sister go by. As they resumed walking toward the saloon, Chance glanced over at his brother and said quietly, “She’s an odd one, isn’t she?”

  “I didn’t think so at all,” Ace said.

  Chance looked at him again and laughed. “Good Lord. You’re taken with her, aren’t you?”

  “Miss Emory seemed pretty smart. I always like intelligent folks.”

  “And easy on the eyes, too. Although not nearly as pretty as Miss Dupree.”

  Ace just shrugged. He wasn’t going to waste time arguing over which of the young women was more attractive when they were both mighty nice-looking.

  The Melodian wasn’t far. They walked past the darkened mouth of an alley just a few buildings away from the saloon.

  A sudden scuff of boot leather against the ground was the only warning Ace had before something crashed into the back of his head and sent him pitching forward to his knees.

  CHAPTER NINE

  An arm went around Ace’s neck from behind and closed tightly on it. Whoever had hold of him jerked him to his feet and dragged him backwards into the dark, narrow passage between buildings.

  The blow to the head had stunned him and caused his brain to whirl madly. For a second or two he couldn’t think or even see straight.

  Then he heard grunting beside him and boots slapping against the dirt of the alley and realized Chance was under attack, too. One word leaped into Ace’s mind.

  McLaren!

  They had been warned over and over. They had been alert. And yet they had been taken by surprise, and with a sinking feeling, Ace knew why.

  He had been thinking about Meredith Emory, and he suspected Chance had been looking forward to seeing Fontana Dupree again. Without them even realizing it, their vigilance had been blunted by pretty faces.

  They were in trouble, but that didn’t mean things were over, Ace told himself as his mind began to clear. Not over by a long shot, he vowed. The forearm clamped across his throat kept him from yelling, but he could still put up a fight.

  Deep into the alley, a man ordered, “Hang on to them, damn it!” The harsh whisper disguised the voice a little as he said, “Let’s get ’em, Perry!”

  Ace thought he recognized it as belonging to Pete McLaren.

  Tequila fumes from the mouth of the man holding him enveloped Ace’s face. He stumbled a little as he dragged Ace along the passage.

  The attackers had been stoking themselves up with liquid courage, maybe as long as all afternoon Ace quickly realized. That meant their bellies might be a little tender. He put that theory to the test by suddenly ramming his right elbow back into the gut of the man holding him.

  The blow had an immediate effect. The man grunted in pain and then retched, loosening his grip on Ace’s throat. Ace twisted free just in time to avoid getting soaked by the vomit that spewed forth.

  Ace kept turning and brought his left arm up and back so the elbow caught his erstwhile captor under the chin and rocked his head back. The man fell away, but as he did, the one who had been in front of Ace giving the orders closed in. A punch hammered into Ace’s chest before he could get his feet set. He reeled back, and his shoulder blades struck the wall of the building on that side of the passage.

  That was good. Nobody could come at him from behind.

  A little light filtered into the alley from the street, but not enough for him to make out anything except vague shapes. A few yards away, several figures—Chance and a couple other men—struggled, swaying back and forth.

  Drawing Ace’s attention back to his current dilemma, the man still in front of him bored in, fists pistoning back and forth.

  Ace got his arms up, blocked some of the blows, absorbed the punishment from the others. He snapped out a left jab, aiming almost blindly, and felt a satisfying shiver up his arm as it landed against what felt like his opponent’s cheekbone.

  The punch made the man move back a step. Ace followed, not crowding too close in case the man was trying a feint, and hooked a right to the body. It landed solidly.

  The air in the passage was thick with shadows and the reek of upchucked tequila. Ace ignored the stench and lifted a left uppercut that knocked the man he was fighting off his feet.

  A more unscrupulous battler would have rushed in, kicking and stomping while his opponent was down. Ace, more honorable than most, paused to see if McLaren—he felt sure the man was McLaren—was going to get back up.

  At that moment, a weight landed on Ace’s back and knocked him forward.

  The man who had tackled him pinned his arms to his side. “I got him, Pete!” the man yelled, his mouth painfully close to Ace’s ear. “Get up and kill him!”

  The smell of vomit told Ace it was the man who had grabbed him earlier. With both feet against the ground, Ace caught his balance and shoved hard backwards. Not braced well enough to withstand the force, the man lurched backwards, which allowed Ace to keep driving with his feet and ram his captor against the wall.

  That broke him loose. Ace whirled and swung a punch at a dimly seen jaw. His fist landed with a solid thud. The man’s head went to the side, and his knees buckled. Ace darted aside to let him fall.

  Expecting McLaren to jump him again, Ace twisted to meet the attack, only to catch a glimpse of a silhouetted figure running along the alley toward the street. The man reached the alley mouth and darted to the side. A stray beam of light fell across his face, revealing the bruised, panting features of Pete McLaren.

  That came as no surprise to Ace, nor was he shocked that McLaren had lit a shuck when the fight didn’t go his way. McLaren was a bully. He wanted the odds on his side, and he didn’t like it when anybody stood up to him. He sure wasn’t interested in a fair fight.

  It wasn’t a fair fight Chance was facing, that was for sure. He had gotten loose from the man who’d grabbed him initially, but he had three hombres crowding in, all trying to throw punches at him.

  Chance had managed to get his back against the wall on the other side of the alley, though, and his three opponents kept getting in each other’s way as they tried to hammer him. As Ace watched, Chance leaned his head away from a punch and the man’s fist slammed into the wall. The man howled in pain and staggered back, clutching the injured hand.

  Ace was ready. He swung both clubbed fists against the back of the man’s head in a pile-driver blow that sent him senseless to the dirt of the alley.

  Chance knocked one of the remaining men off his feet with a powerful left, right, left combination, the punches flying too fast for the eye to follow even if there had been enough light in the alley.

  The last man in the bunch, caught between the Jensen brothers, had no opportunity to get away. Ace staggered him with a hard punch, then Chance finished him off with a roundhouse blow that dropped him, out cold. Ace and Chance were the only ones left standing, their chests rising and falling heavily as they tried to catch their breath.

  “Let’s get out of here,” C
hance said. “It stinks in this alley.”

  “Yeah,” Ace said. “I want to see if we can find McLaren.”

  “I can’t believe we let him get away with jumping us when we knew he was liable to do it!”

  “He didn’t get away with it,” Ace said with a grim smile as they reached the street. “Not yet, anyway. And his pards sure didn’t, since they’re laying back there and can’t even get up.”

  They looked both ways along the street for any sign of Pete McLaren but didn’t see him.

  “Blast it. He could have gone anywhere,” Chance muttered.

  “There’s the marshal and Deputy Soriano,” Ace said, nodding toward the boardwalk across the street. “Maybe they saw him.”

  In fact, the two lawmen had taken note of the Jensen brothers and their disheveled appearance and were already starting across the street toward them. Ace and Chance picked up and dusted off their hats that had fallen off when McLaren’s friends grabbed them.

  “What in blazes happened to you two?” the marshal asked as he and Miguel came up to them.

  “Let me guess,” Miguel said before either Ace or Chance could answer. “Pete McLaren tried to get even.”

  Ace pointed over his shoulder with a thumb. “His four pals are back in the alley, either unconscious or close to it. They grabbed us and dragged us in there and planned to give us a thrashing.”

  Dixon grunted. “Let me guess. They wound up with more than they could handle.”

  “We might’ve gotten a little lucky,” Ace said, since modesty was in his nature. “When McLaren saw things weren’t going his way, he took off for the tall and uncut.”

  “I don’t suppose you saw him?” Chance said to the lawmen.

  “No, but I reckon I know where he’ll go,” Dixon said heavily. “There’s a little cantina on the edge of town run by an old pard of McLaren’s brother Otis. More than likely he headed for José’s place.” The marshal frowned. “You boys willin’ to swear out a complaint against McLaren?”

  Ace hesitated. He and Chance had always been in the habit of stomping their own snakes, rather than turning to the authorities for help whenever they ran into trouble, but if they planned on staying in Lone Pine for a while, it might be better not to take the law into their own hands.

  He wasn’t sure about Chance, but he wasn’t ready to leave the settlement just yet. Not until he’d had an opportunity to get to know Meredith Emory a little better. He was willing to bet Chance felt the same way about Fontana Dupree.

  The same thought process must have been going through Chance’s mind, because both brothers agreed at the same time.

  “All right, then,” Dixon said with a curt nod. “We’ll go hunt him up, then. Miguel, can you get those varmints in the alley on their feet and prod ’em over to the jail?”

  “Sure,” the night deputy replied, “but if you’re going to arrest McLaren, I ought to come with you, Marshal.”

  “That’s all right. I reckon these Jensen boys will go along with me. I want all of McLaren’s bunch locked up while we’ve got the chance.”

  “Sta bueno,” Miguel agreed, although clearly reluctant to let the marshal tackle the chore of arresting Pete McLaren without him.

  Ace, Chance, and Dixon moved off down the street, with the brothers letting the lawman lead the way. Dixon’s route took them to a shack on the edge of the settlement where a lantern burned dimly through a filthy window.

  The marshal had his hand on the butt of his gun as he opened the door and stepped inside. Ace and Chance went in behind him and saw that the cantina was pretty squalid.

  It also appeared to be empty except for the grossly fat man standing behind the bar. Beads of sweat clung to his face and shone in the lantern light.

  Ace thought maybe he was sweating because it was hot and he was fat . . . but there might be another reason, too.

  “José, I reckon you know why I’m here,” Dixon said with a stern frown on his face. “I’m lookin’ for Pete McLaren.”

  José shook his head. “I have not seen him, Señor Marshal. Not for days.”

  “That so? Then how come I’ve had reports him and his pards were in here blottin’ up tequila most of the day?” Dixon might have been guessing about that, but the look on José’s face confirmed the marshal was correct.

  “Where is he?” Dixon asked. “I know you used to ride with the boy’s brother a long time ago, José. I don’t hold that against you. You’ve been pretty law-abidin’ here lately. Don’t let lyin’ to me about McLaren ruin that for you.”

  José’s mouth opened and closed a couple times, making his chins wobble, and even though he didn’t say anything, his eyes cut sharply toward a couple barrels stuck in a corner of the room.

  Watching from behind those barrels, McLaren saw José’s reaction just as well as the others did. He came up, kicking a barrel aside, and flame spouted from the revolver jutting out of his fist as it went off with a deafening roar.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The gun wasn’t pointed toward Marshal Dixon or the Jensen brothers. José yowled and reeled back as blood bloomed like a crimson flower on his grimy apron.

  “You damn backstabbin’ greaser!” McLaren yelled as he triggered again.

  The shot missed. José had already collapsed behind the plank bar. The bullet exploded a jug of tequila sitting on a shelf and sprayed shards of clay pottery around the area behind the bar. José yelped again, so at least he wasn’t dead.

  Dixon clawed at the gun on his hip. He might be a tough, veteran lawman, but he wasn’t fast on the draw. McLaren pivoted toward him, and it looked like he might get another shot off before Dixon was able to clear leather.

  In the cantina’s close quarters, throwing too much lead around could turn out disastrous, Ace figured. He snatched up a chair from a nearby table and slung it at McLaren.

  McLaren’s gun boomed a third time, but the flying chair had already crashed into him and knocked his arm up. The slug went well over the heads of Ace, Chance, and Dixon. The marshal had his gun out, but he held his fire as Chance leaped toward the staggering McLaren, caught hold of the gunman’s wrist with his left hand, and forced his gun hand up. The next instant, Chance’s right fist slammed into McLaren’s jaw and drove him off his feet.

  Ace kicked the gun out of McLaren’s hand and sent it spinning across the room. He and Chance both stepped back as Dixon loomed over McLaren and covered him with a rock-steady Colt.

  “Wouldn’t take much of an excuse for me to pull the trigger on you, McLaren,” Dixon warned. Without taking his eyes off the gunman, he said, “One of you boys check on José. See how bad he’s hurt.”

  Ace did that while Chance drew his gun from the shoulder holster and trained it on McLaren as well. With two guns pointed at him, McLaren didn’t dare try anything.

  José was groaning as he lay on the dirty floor behind the bar. Ace knelt beside him and rolled him onto his back, which was sort of like trying to right a beached whale. Ace pulled the apron and cotton shirt aside and saw the bloody hole in José’s shoulder. A quick check revealed a similar wound in José’s back where the bullet had gone out.

  Ace told him, “Looks like you’re going to be all right, amigo. The slug went through clean and didn’t break any bones as far as I can tell. I’m sure Lone Pine’s got a good doc who can patch you up.”

  “We do,” Marshal Dixon said. “I’ll send for him soon as I get a chance. Although he may already be on the way, if he heard those shots.” He motioned with his gun barrel to McLaren. “On your feet. You’re under arrest.”

  “You can’t do this,” McLaren said as he climbed to his feet. “It ain’t right. It’s all the fault of these two troublemakers.”

  “The Jensens?” Dixon snorted and shook his head. “I followed the law the first time around and locked them up, even though I knew you were really to blame for that ruckus in the Melodian. But this time you and your pards jumped them—”

  “You’ve only got their word for that,” McLaren
said as his jaw stuck out defiantly.

  Dixon glared at him. “Maybe so, but I just saw it with my own eyes when you shot ol’ José.”

  From behind the bar, José said in a quavery voice, “I-I will not press charges, Señor Marshal.”

  “It don’t matter,” Dixon told him. “You don’t have to press charges since I witnessed the crime. That’s plenty to put McLaren on trial for attempted murder and send him to Cañon City for seven or eight years.”

  “No!” McLaren exclaimed. “You can’t!”

  “I can and will,” Dixon said grimly. “Now get movin’.”

  As they were prodding the prisoner out of the cantina, Miguel Soriano came trotting up with a shotgun in his hands, followed at a distance by a slender, bespectacled man in a town suit.

  “Marshal!” Miguel said. “I heard the shots. So did Doc Bellem.”

  Dixon jerked his head toward the door. “Your patient’s inside, Doc. José’s shot through the shoulder, but this young fella took a look at it and said it wasn’t too bad.”

  The physician frowned at Ace. “Do you have any medical training, young man?”

  “No, sir,” Ace replied, “but I’ve seen more than my fair share of bullet holes.”

  “He’s patched up a few, too,” Chance added with a grin.

  Bellem bustled on inside. Miguel joined the group taking Pete McLaren to jail. The shots had attracted a considerable amount of attention, and quite a few people stood along the street to watch the procession.

  A number of them wore very satisfied expressions, as if they were happy to see McLaren on his way to the hoosegow. He couldn’t have failed to notice that, and it probably fueled his rage even more.

  But with four armed men at his back, especially when one of them held a scattergun, McLaren could do nothing about it.

  “You get the others locked up all right?” Dixon asked Miguel.

  “Sí,” the night deputy responded. “They were so groggy they gave me no trouble.”

  “And we’ve got their ringleader,” Dixon said. “Maybe now we can actually finish the job of cleanin’ up this town.”